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IDLE 

C  O  M  M  K  N  T  S 

BY 

ISAAC  ERWIN  AVERY 

Late  City  Editor  of  the  Charlotte  Observer 

1 

CHARLOTTE,    N.    C. 

THE    AVERY    PUBLISHING    COMPANY 

1905 

Cofyrigkt,  igos 
By  GEORGE  STEPHENS 


Publishers'  Printing  Company 
New  York 


PREFACE 

Immediately  after  Mr.  Avery's  untimely  and  tragic 
death,  there  was  a  demand  throughout  the  State  that 
there  should  be  published  a  memorial  volume  con- 
sisting of  selections  from  his  writings.  Mr.  D.  A. 
Tompkins,  Mr.  George  Stephens,  W.  H.  Twitty  and 
Mr.  Chase  Brenizer,  all  of  Charlotte,  appreciating  the 
importance  of  the  suggestion,  assumed  the  financial  re- 
sponsibility of  such  a  volume.  In  addition,  they  con- 
ceived the  idea  that,  by  the  sale  of  the  book,  memorial 
scholarships  m.ight  be  established  at  Trinity  College, 
Mr.  Avery's  alma  mater.  They  asked  the  undersigned 
board  of  editors  to  prepare  the  volume. 

The  editors  now  present  what  is,  in  their  judgment, 
the  best  work  of  this  gifted  man.  We  have  endeavored 
to  make  the  selections  of  such  a  varied  interest  as  to 
show  at  once  the  versatility  of  his  mind  and  to  appeal 
to  all  classes  of  readers.  There  has  been  no  revision  of 
his  work — with  a  very  few  unimportant  changes  the 
selections  are  just  as  he  wrote  them.  There  is  no 
better  evidence  of  his  genius  than  the  fact  that  writing, 
done  at  times  with  such  great  haste  and  with  the  pres- 
sure of  night  work  upon  him,  should  be  so  strikingly 
free  from  infelicities  of  diction. 

It  is  the  opinion  of  the  editors  that  the  present  vol- 
ume is  evidence  at  once  of  Mr.  Avery's  literary  ability, 
[vii] 


PREFACE 

and  a  record  of  life  in  North  Carolina  such  as  has  not 
been  published  in  the  State.  We  believe,  too,  that  he 
treated  local  affairs  and  local  characters  with  such  an 
unerring  knowledge  of  human  nature  that  his  writings 
will  appeal  to  men  of  other  sections.  We  bespeak  for 
the  volume  a  hearty  reception  by  those  who  knew  him 
in  the  flesh  and  felt  the  charm  of  his  personality;  by 
those  who  never  saw  him,  but  followed  his  words  as 
eagerly  as  those  of  an  intimate  friend  and  a  genial 
philosopher;  by  those  who,  not  having  known  him 
before,  may  find  here  the  revelation  of  a  very  rare 
spirit. 

Edwin  Mims, 
J.  P.  Caldwell, 
C.  Alphonso  Smith, 
Plato  Durham, 
J.  W.  Bailey. 


[viii] 


ISAAC    ERWIN   AVERY 

Isaac  Erwin  Avery  was  born  at  the  ancestral  home 
of  the  Averys,  at  Swan  Ponds,  about  four  miles  from 
Morganton,  in  Burke  county,  N.  C,  on  the  first  day 
of  December,  187 1,  and  died  at  Charlotte,  on  the  sec- 
ond day  of  April,  1904.  He  was  the  second  son  of 
Hon.  Alphonso  C.  Avery  and  Susan  Morrison  Avery, 
and  was  descended  from  families  whose  members  were 
prominent  in  the  country's  history.  His  parents  moved 
to  Morganton  when  he  was  very  young,  and  there 
his  boyhood  days  were  spent,  attending  the  primary 
schools.  He  was  prepared  for  college  at  the  Academy 
of  Morganton  by  Rev.  John  A.  Gilmer,  now  the  Pres- 
byterian minister  at  Newton,  N.  C,  and  might  have 
entered  college  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  but  remained  at 
home  for  a  while,  devoting  most  of  his  time  to  reading. 
His  fondness  for  reading  developed  when  a  mere  boy, 
as  did  his  propensity  for  writing  humorous  letters  and 
compositions.  He  spent  some  months  in  the  service  of 
the  Western  North  Carolina  Railroad  Company,  at 
Morganton  and  Hot  Springs.  For  six  months  or  more 
prior  to  entering  college  he  served  as  collector  for  the 
Bank  of  Morganton.  He  entered  the  sophomore  class 
of  Trinity  College  (then  located  in  Randolph  county, 
and  later  moved  to  Durham)  in  1890,  and  his  course 

[ix] 


ISAAC  ERWIN  AVERY 

there  was  marked  by  a  special  fondness  for  history  and 
literature.  He  was  an  excellent  football  player,  and 
was  universally  esteemed  by  faculty  and  students. 
During  his  senior  year  he  read  law  under  his  father,  the 
dean  of  the  law  department  of  Trinity,  and  when 
Hcensed,  in  September,  1893,  was,  to  say  the  least,  as 
well  prepared  as  any  candidate  in  the  large  class  which 
went  before  the  Supreme  Court. 

While  he  was  regarded  by  all  who  came  in  contact 
with  him  as  possessing  a  mind  especially  fitted  for  the 
law,  his  tastes  and  talents  were  constantly  driving  him 
toward  newspaper  and  more  general  literary  work. 
He  had  made  good  progress  along  this  line  before  leav- 
ing college,  as  editor  of  The  Trinity  Archive  and  as 
correspondent  for  different  papers  in  the  State.  His 
first  contribution  which  earned  him  money  was  a  para- 
graph of  about  thirty  lines  sent  to  Town  Topics,  with- 
out hope  of  reward,  during  the  Christmas  vacation  of 
1892.  For  this  he  received  ten  dollars.  This  incident 
led  to  dreams  of  making  reputation  and  support  some 
day  as  a  writer. 

Soon  after  receiving  his  license  to  practice  law,  Mr. 
Avery  returned  to  Morganton  and  was  employed  by 
Mr.  W.  C.  Erwin  as  associate  editor  of  The  Morganton 
Herald.  Here  he  exercised  a  free  hand  in  writing  for 
the  paper,  and  attracted  considerable  outside  attention 
by  his  original  methods  and  the  excellent  humor  in 
many  of  his  articles.  Upon  the  invitation  of  Mr. 
Thomas  P.  Jernigan,  then  a  citizen  of  Raleigh,  who 
had  been  appointed  by  President  Cleveland  consul- 
general   at   Shanghai,   Mr.   Avery  left  for   China  in 

[X] 


ISAAC  ERWIN  AVERY 

March,  1894,  as  secretary  to  the  consul-general.  In 
less  than  a  year  he  was  appointed  vice  consul-general  at 
Shanghai,  which  office  he  filled  until  the  spring  of 
1898,  when  a  new  consul-general  was  named  by 
President  McKinley.  In  China  Mr.  Avery  did  some 
writing  for  American  newspapers,  but  decided  not  to 
continue  the  work,  owing  to  his  connection  with  the 
consular  service.  He  was,  however,  during  a  large 
part  of  his  stay  in  Shanghai  a  regular  contributor  to 
The  North  China  Daily  News,  the  leading  English 
paper  in  the  Orient.  While  residing  in  Shanghai,  Mr. 
Avery  was  prominent  in  the  leading  social  circle 
among  the  foreign  residents  and  absorbed  a  rich  fund 
of  information  which  stood  him  in  good  stead  later, 
and  made  him  a  most  interesting  talker  not  only  about 
things  in  the  Far  East,  but  in  the  world  at  large. 

When  he  returned  to  North  CaroHna,  he  took  up 
active  newspaper  work  after  a  few  months,  reporting 
the  proceedings  of  the  State  Senate  in  the  Legislature 
of  1899  for  a  number  of  newspapers  represented  by 
Col.  Fred  A.  Olds,  of  Raleigh.  He  also  had  charge  of 
Colonel  Olds's  news  bureau  for  a  month  or  more  while 
he  was  on  a  trip  to  Cuba.  About  May  i,  1899,  he 
went  to  Greensboro,  where  he  estabUshed  a  news 
bureau,  representing  a  number  of  leading  papers  in 
North  Carolina  and  elsewhere.  As  a  result  of  his  activ- 
ity as  a  reporter,  Greensboro  became  especially  promi- 
nent as  a  news-dispensing  centre,  and  Mr.  Avery's 
reputation  as  a  writer  began  to  expand.  On  January 
I,  1900,  he  became  city  editor  of  the  Charlotte  Ob- 
server, which  position  he  filled  until  his  death.  It  was 
[xi] 


ISAAC  ERWm  AVERY 

while  here  that  his  unusual  Uterary  gifts  to  some  extent 
gained  the  recognition  which  they  really  deserved. 

Personally  he  was  the  most  engaging  of  men.  Hand- 
some as  Apollo,  with  a  countenance  clear-cut  and  pro- 
claiming in  every  hne  his  gentle  birth;  tall,  massive  of 
frame,  he  combined  with  these  physical  attributes  a 
manner  as  genial  as  the  sunshine.  His  cultivation  was 
that  of  the  schools,  that  acquired  by  the  reading  of  the 
best  literature  and  of  close  association  with,  and  acute 
observation  of,  the  great  world  of  men.  His  gifts  of 
conversation  were  equal  to  those  with  which  he  had 
been  endowed  for  his  profession,  and  thus  he  was  with 
these,  and  his  commanding  presence,  the  centre  of 
every  group  in  which  he  found  himself.  His  popularity 
was  unbounded.  In  his  great  heart  was  charity  for  all 
mankind,  and  it  was  ever  open  to  the  cry  of  distress. 
None  who  knew  him  or  followed  him  in  his  work  will 
ever  forget  him  or  cease  to  mourn  that  his  Hfe,  so  rich  in 
promise,  should  have  been  cut  off  before  its  sun  had 
nearly  reached  meridian. 

During  his  four  years'  sojourn  in  Charlotte  Mr. 
Avery  became  thoroughly  identified  with  the  best 
phases  of  the  city's  Hfe,  and  was  a  recognized  leader  in 
almost  every  movement  that  promised  benefit  to  the 
people.  While  he  was  a  leader  in  the  best  social  Hfe  of 
the  city,  he  was  popular  with  aU  classes.  He  was  es- 
pecially sought  after  by  those  in  trouble,  whether 
friends  or  strangers,  and  though  his  time  was  generally 
taken  up  to  a  large  extent  with  his  newspaper  work  and 
caUs  made  upon  him  by  society,  he  always  took  that 
necessary  to  offer  counsel  to  those  who  called  on  him. 
[xH] 


ISAAC  ERWIN  AVERY 

Though  exceedingly  patient  and  genuinely  anxious  to 
aid  all  who  appealed  to  him,  he  would,  on  rare  occa- 
sions, remark  with  a  sigh  that  he  wished  he  did  not 
know  of  so  much  unhappiness — had  not  been  made  to 
put  himself  in  the  places  of  so  many  people  in  distress. 
But  this  feeling  was  only  momentary,  for  he  would  im- 
mediately turn  his  thoughts  to  other  things  and  become 
again  the  possessor  of  that  sunny  disposition  which 
was  one  of  his  most  charming  characteristics. 

While  Mr.  Avery  was  designated  as  "city  editor" 
of  the  Charlotte  Observer,  he  was  in  reality  much  more, 
for  he  was  given  freedom  to  criticise  or  commend  the 
public  acts  of  men  which  came  under  his  observation, 
and  while  he  never  failed  to  write  what  he  thought,  he 
did  it  in  a  way  that  made  him  few  enemies,  even  among 
those  whose  actions  suffered  most  at  his  hand.  While 
he  was  most  widely  known  because  of  his  manner  of 
handling  stories  of  human  interest,  either  pathetic  or 
humorous,  as  a  miscellaneous  news-gatherer  he  was 
eminently  successful,  thus  combining  gifts  rarely  de- 
veloped in  the  same  nature.  So  famous  did  his  writing 
become  that  it  was  not  unusual  for  papers  published 
hundreds  of  miles  from  Charlotte  to  reprint  his  reports 
of  events  which,  written  in  the  ordinary  manner,  would 
interest  none  save  those  residing  in  the  immediate 
vicinity  in  which  the  incidents  detailed  occurred.  An- 
other rather  unusual  combination  noticeable  in  his 
newspaper  work  was  his  ability  to  write  pathetic  as 
well  as  humorous  articles.  He  could  do  either  with 
equal  readiness,  yet  his  natural  propensity  was  toward 
that  of  humor — the  clean,  sweet  and  yet  sharp  and 
[xiii] 


ISAAC  ERWm  AVERY 

sparkling  kind  that  would  cause  a  laugh,  and  do  more. 
In  his  general  newspaper  work,  where  he  was  confined 
to  no  special  class  of  events,  but  had  the  entire  field  at 
his  disposal,  he  seemed  never  at  a  loss  as  to  how  a  story 
should  be  written,  and  he  made  remarkably  few  mis- 
takes. This  statement  is,  of  course,  intended  to  con- 
vey the  idea  that  Mr.  Avery  was  a  student  of  human 
nature.  In  fact,  he  seemed  to  know  men  at  first  sight, 
and  his  ability  to  pick  out  a  fraudulent  scheme  when 
first  unfolded  to  him — no  matter  how  well  clothed — 
was  noticeable  on  many  occasions,  and  the  value  of 
this  clear-sightedness  in  his  work  as  city  editor  was 
incalculable. 

Mr.  Avery  could  not  only  gather  the  news  which 
was  on  the  surface,  so  to  speak,  and  put  it  in  the  proper 
shape  to  go  before  an  intelligent  public,  but  he  could 
readily  induce  people  to  give  out  particulars  that  are 
legitimate  matters  of  publicity,  but  which  are  often 
withheld  by  those  who  possess  the  information  desired. 
Therefore,  he  was  preeminently  known  among  his 
newspaper  associates  as  the  best  of  interviewers. 
Whenever  an  occurrence  of  special  importance  came  to 
light,  no  matter  where,  the  first  thought  in  the  Ob- 
server office  was  that  Avery  should  be  on  the  ground, 
and  whenever  it  was  possible  to  do  so,  he  was  sent  at 
once  to  the  scene.  Who  can  ever  forget  his  stories  of 
the  mill  disaster  in  South  CaroHna  ?  or  his  account  of 
the  Greensboro  reunion?  His  paper  received  numer- 
ous requests  to  have  him  assigned  to  out-of-town 
meetings  and  other  events  which  it  was  desired  should 
be  handled  in  a  masterly  manner, 
[xiv] 


ISAAC  ERWIN  AVERY 

In  exercising  the  prerogatives  of  his  position,  it 
often  fell  to  his  lot  to  pass  unfavorable  criticism  upon 
men  or  systems.  He  did  this  in  such  manner  as  he 
thought  appropriate,  and  now  and  then  a  controversy 
would  develop,  but  he  invariably  contented  himself 
with  merely  stating  his  position  clearly,  being  satisfied 
to  let  the  public  draw  its  own  conclusions.  On  a  few 
occasions  his  humorous  references  to  people  brought 
them  to  see  him,  to  protest  that  they  should  not  have 
been  referred  to  in  the  manner  which  he  had  seen  fit  to 
employ.  Here,  too,  he  was  especially  gifted,  for  with- 
out any  semblance  of  a  compromise,  he  would  make 
peace  in  a  way  that  would  sometimes  provoke  envy  in 
his  newspaper  associates,  and  in  rare  instances  disap- 
point them  when  they  thought  he  might  have  to  essay 
the  role  to  which  by  nature  he  seemed  especially  fitted 
in  a  physical  sense,  owing  to  the  bellicose  vein  into 
which  the  aggrieved  party  had  brought  himself  on 
reading  Mr.  Avery's  description  of  him. 

More  significant  than  his  work  as  a  reporter  or  an 
interviewer  or  an  editorial  writer  was  his  "A  Variety 
of  Idle  Comment," — a  department  of  the  Observer 
which  appeared  on  Monday  mornings — and  upon  this 
department  his  fame  largely  rests.  A  man  of  the  world, 
of  contact  with  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  humanity, 
he  had  closely  studied  his  fellows  and  looked  "quite 
through  the  deeds  of  men,"  A  commentator  upon  their 
virtues  and  vices,  their  merits  and  weaknesses,  he 
brought  to  every  discussion  the  subtlest  analysis,  and 
with  perfect,  sometimes  startling,  fidelity,  "held  the 
mirror  up  to  nature."    His  pen  was  adapted  with  ut- 

[XV] 


ISAAC  ERWIN  AVERY 

most  facility  to  every  subject  he  touched,  and  he  touched 
none  but  to  adorn  or  illumine  it.  Amiable,  sweet  of 
spirit,  he  yet  might  feel  that  a  person,  a  custom  or  an 
institution  called  for  invective  or  ridicule,  and  he  was  a 
torrent.  Anon  a  child,  a  flower,  a  friendless  one  ap- 
pealed to  him,  and  his  pen  caressed  them,  as  his  heart 
was  attuned  to  the  music  of  the  spheres.  His  humor 
was  exquisite;  his  pathos  tear-compelling.  He  was  the 
master  of  a  rich  vocabulary — the  master;  that  is  the 
word.  It  responded  immediately  to  every  demand 
upon  it,  and  thus  he  attempted  no  figure  that  was  not 
complete;  he  drew  no  picture  that  did  not  stand  out  on 
the  canvas  in  colors  of  living  light.  The  writer  pro- 
fesses some  familiarity  with  the  contemporaneous  news- 
paper writers  of  the  South,  and  is  sure  that  he  in- 
dulges no  exuberance  of  langage,  that  personal  affection 
warps  his  judgment  not  at  all,  when  he  says  that  for 
original  thought,  for  power  or  felicity  of  expression, 
Isaac  Erwin  Avery  had  not  an  equal  among  them. 


[xvi] 


CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  In  and  About  a  Newspaper  Office       .     .       i 
II.  Charlotte  and  Her  Neighbors    ....     20 

III.  Character  Sketches 46 

IV.  Negro  Types 73 

V.  Woman  and  Her  World .86 

VI.  Children 115 

VII.  Animals       129 

VIII.  Christmas 143 

IX.  Southern  Life  and  Manners    ....       153 

X.  Anecdotes 168 

XI.  Observavions  on  Literature 181 

XII.  Ideals  of  Writing  and  Speaking      .     .     .194 

XIII.  Music  and  Drama 211 

XIV.  Reflections  on  Life  and  Death      .     .     .227 
XV.  Miscellany 252 


/^ 


^T^HE  violets  again — little  wet  violets,  and  there  is  the 
clean,  sweet  breath  of  spring.  One  would  lift  his 
head  and  drink  deep — taste  this  newness,  this  grateful 
freshness  that  is  about.  There  is  a  quicker  leap  of  life, 
and  Nature  seems  to  stir  with  a  kind  of  tenderness. 
There  is  deeper  glow  on  the  faces  of  children — easier  hap- 
piness on  a  tiny,  nestling  face.  .  .  .  Girlhood  comes  to 
outward  whiteness  again — the  cool,  crisp  sign  of  spring. 
And  in  all  is  the  subtle  charm  of  violets — little  human, 
tremulous  things,  gentle  as  lovers  whisper,  pure  as  purity. 
Restful,  quaint  little  flower,  too — simple,  appealing.  .  .  . 
Flower  to  lay  on  a  baby  that,  has  died — to  give  as  seemly 
tribute  to  womanhood — to  press  against  the  face  as  ease- 
ment for  tired  heart.  .  .  .  Such  a  dear,  peaceful  little 
flower,  all  alone  in  flower-land — emblems  of  the  world's 
simplest  and  best,  and  waiting  to  mock  a  false  face  or 
adorn  the  beauty  that  comes  from  the  soul. 


T 


IDLE    COMMENTS 

CHAPTER  I 

IN  AND   ABOUT  A  NEWSPAPER  OFFICE 

HE  public  is  probably  now  able  to  understand  How  the 
the  strain  that  has  been  upon  newspapers  in  g^^^     ^^ 


recent  days.  The  burden  of  a  great  crisis  has 
rested  severely  upon  the  daily  press.  Its  members,  part 
of  the  machine,  have  had  personal  feeling,  also,  but 
everything  with  them  had  to  be  subordinated  to  the 
ever-pressing  task  of  conveying  correct  intelHgence  to 
the  world. 

Blessed  with  favorable  service,  The  Observer  was  one 
of  the  only  two  papers  in  the  State  that  sent  out  from 
their  own  towns  early  yesterday  morning  the  news  of  the 
President's  death.  The  statement  is  made  not  boast- 
fully; for  the  mere  purpose  of  this  writing  is  to  explain 
what  the  fateful  news  meant  to  a  morning  paper  in 
Charlotte,  far  removed  from  the  more  densely  populated 
centres. 

The  sending  of  the  news  and  the  manner  of  the  send- 
[I] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

How  the  ing  was  not  a  little  thing,  and  there  is  pardonable  pride 
^^^Sent  ^^  ^^^^  saying.  Early  in  the  night  the  despatches  had 
showed  that  the  end  was  to  be  expected  at  any  time, 
and  in  preparation  for  the  sad  certainty,  all  matter  out- 
side of  press  service  was  ordered  to  be  rushed,  and  was 
rushed. 

There  was  but  little  talk  in  the  print  shop.  Every 
man  waited — and  waited. 

At  2  o'clock  the  forms  from  which  the  paper  is 
printed  were  scattered  lead  and  iron.  A  fateful  wire 
was  to  decide  the  exact  mode  of  their  arrangement  and 
until  it  came  there  could  be  but  indecision.  And  the 
time  for  carrying  those  forms  to  the  press  room,  in  some 
shape,  was  drawing  nigh. 

At  2  :i7  o'clock  the  paper's  Associated  Press  operator 
received  the  wire  announcing  the  death  of  the  Presi- 
dent.* The  message  came  out  to  the  composing  room, 
and  a  dozen  and  more  men  breathed  a  prayer  for  time. 

The  mailing  clerk  had  received  orders  that  would  re- 
quire The  Observer  to  issue  the  largest  edition  ever  sent 
out.  The  staff  and  the  mechanical  force  knew  that  the 
paper,  to  make  the  mails,  must  go  to  press  an  hour  ear- 
lier than  usual,  and  this  demanded  all  that  mind  and 
quickness  could  do. 

System  won  out.  Every  man  kept  down  nerves  and 
worked  for  what  he  knew  he  must  do  and  do  quickly. 
The  minutes  passed — and  the  press  downstairs  waited. 

And  the  paper  won  out.  In  just  exactly  an  hour  after 
the  telegram  was  received  the  forms  were  in  the  press. 
No  mail  was  missed,  and,  at  every  point  that  The  Oh- 

*  President  McKinley 
[2] 


m  AND  ABOUT  A  NEWSPAPER  OFFICE 

server  reached,  its  distribution  was  unprecedented  in 
its  history. 

To-day  Mr.  Howard  A.  Banks  will  cease  to  be  man-  The  Night 
aging  editor  of  The  Observer  and  will  become  editor  of  °^ 
The  Evening  Chronicle.  For  eleven  years  he  has  done 
most  of  his  work  at  night  and  his  best  work  after  mid- 
night ;  but  now  he  is  privileged  to  eat  breakfast  and  la- 
bor with  a  work-a-day  world.  He  will  join  the  throng 
that  becomes  drowsy  at  noon  and  shakes  its  head  when 
it  looks  at  the  toilers  of  the  night.  Mr,  Banks  is  to  be  a 
white  man  indeed,  and  he  welcomes  the  change — doubt- 
fully. He  must  learn  to  become  a-weary  at  an  hour 
that  seems  too  soon — must  learn  to  sleep  too  quickly. 
He  must  overcome  the  habits  of  the  long  years.  He  will 
do  this,  for  man  is  an  adaptable  animal  and  yields  easily 
to  change.  But,  mayhap,  he  will  not  live  so  long  that  he 
can  forget  the  charm  that  was  while  a  world  slumbered. 
He  has  been  part  of  a.  coatless  crowd  that  loitered  on  the 
deserted  streets  and  feasted  and  lied  cheerily  every 
morning  just  before  dayhght.  'Twas  such  a  little  crowd. 
Month  after  month  and  year  after  year  there  were  the 
same  men  who  touched  elbows,  felt  a  common  excite- 
ment, got  closer  together — found  intense  existence  in 
the  great  stillness.  Aye,  Banks  will  be  a  white  man,  but 
he  will  not  forget.  Night  work  eats  into  the  brain  and 
body.  'Tis  fascinating.  There  is  charm  in  the  late, 
quiet  hours,  in  the  view  of  a  resting  city,  in  the  fine, 
loud  silence  of  the  night.  Peace  broods,  and  here  is  a 
time  for  thought.  Night!  Ah,  night  breaks  too  often 
into  day.    It  is  the  blessed  boon  that  comes  after  the 

[3] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

fretfulness  and  bother  that  one  sees  under  sunlight.  It 
is  too  precious  for  sleep;  and  it  is  sweetest  and  purest 
after  midnight.  But  Banks  will  try  to  forget  this.  He 
has  broken  the  ranks  and  shed  his  raiment  of  Bohemi- 
anism.  He,  as  good  a  comrade  as  ever  watched  the 
sun  rise,  may  learn  to  pity  the  children  of  the  night, 
though  he  knows  they  wish  for  no  pity.  He  is  the  first 
deserter — the  first  to  become  civiHzed,  and  his  going 
seems  almost  as  if  someone  or  something  had  died. 
There  is  no  one  who  has  a  readier  sympathy  than  Banks 
— no  one  who  has  such  a  profound  appreciation  of  pie 
at  4  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

The  It  is  strange  to  note  the  contrasting  elements  in  one 
Foreman  ^^^^  man.  Look  at  Dick  Allen,  the  red-headed  fore- 
man up  stairs.  Whenever  he  wants  to  give  himself  a 
treat  he  sends  over  to  the  restaurant  and  buys  a  pickled 
pig's  foot  and  a  cream  puff.  He  must  always  have  the 
two  things  together  and  at  once.  They  appeal  to  both 
sides  of  his  nature.  The  pig's  foot  soothes  the  part  of 
him  that  chews  tobacco  and  swears  at  the  devil;  while 
his  love  for  cream  puffs  is  akin  to  the  thing  in  him  that 
sets  him  to  roaming,  as  a  disciple  of  Izaak  Walton,  by 
the  side  of  httle  rivers.  The  foreman  is  a  contradiction 
and  knows  it.  He  is  the  sort  of  a  man  who  hkes  both 
garlic  and  silk  suspenders.  Mr.  Howard  A.  Banks,  of 
the  paper,  has  a  fashion  of  throwing  open  his  window 
at  eventide  in  order  that  he  may  be  fully  bathed  in  the 
glories  of  the  dying  sun.  "And  I  want  to  say,  Mr. 
Banks,"  said  the  foreman,  "that  since  you  have  been 
looking  so  much  at  these  sunsets  I  am  working  me  up  a 

[4] 


IN  AND  ABOUT  A  NEWSPAPER  OFFICE 

taste  for  the  things  myself."  That  was  a  cream  puff 
mood — the  foreman  at  his  highest  sentimental  ebb ;  and 
yet  even  then  he  would  have  been  far  more  appreciative 
of  the  sunset  if  he  had  held  a  stout  pig's  foot  in  his  right 
hand.    Such  is  the  composition  of  Dick  Allen,  foreman. 

In  the  biographies  of  some  of  the  modern  big  men  The 
the  statement  is  frequently  made  that  "he  began  life  as  ^^^  °^ 
a  newsboy,"  the  suggestion  being  that  the  man  not 
only  commenced  at  the  bottom  rung  of  the  ladder,  but 
that  he  surprised  everybody  by  his  rise  from  such  an 
humble  caUing.  The  truth  is  that  the  lad  who  sticks  to 
the  work  of  carrying  papers  for  a  morning  newspaper 
shows  grit  enough  to  accomplish  anything.  Every 
morning  the  carriers  troop  in  here  about  4  o'clock  with 
sleep  still  heavy  in  their  eyes.  Summer  and  winter  it  is 
the  same;  they  never  fail ;  and  yet  they  are  little  bits  of 
chaps  between  10  and  14  years  of  age.  It  is  no  small 
thing,  and  it  is  more  than  a  man's  work,  to  leave  a  com- 
fortable bed  before  daybreak  and  go  out  into  the  dark- 
ness, and  toil.  The  newsboy  is  a  most  reliable  em- 
ployee, and  the  thing  in  him  that  keeps  him  at  his  ardu- 
ous task  generally  makes  him  a  successful  man  in  the 
long  run.  The  young  men  in  Charlotte  and  elsewhere 
who  have  been  newsboys  have  done  well  in  business 
life.  They  had  pluck  to  begin  with,  and  their  training 
as  paper  carriers  equipped  them  with  the  right  sort  of 
stuff  for  a  struggle. 

*    *    * 

There  is  a  little  bit  of  a  chap  who  gets  up  early  in  the 
morning  and  sells  this  paper,  and  he  is  around  again  in 

[5] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  the  afternoon  to  sell  The  Chronicle.  He  is  a  serious- 
Newsboy  gyg^  -^Qj  who  doesn't  seem  to  enjoy  life  very  much,  but 
he  is  a  hard  worker  and  makes  a  good  deal  of  money 
out  of  the  sales  of  his  papers.  He  is  devoted  to  his  moth- 
er and  wishes  to  take  her  every  cent  he  makes,  and  he 
does  this  except  when  his  father  gets  his  money  and 
spends  it  for  drink.  He  cuffed  the  child  on  the  streets  a 
few  days  ago,  led  him  home  and  emptied  his  pockets, 
and  forced  him  to  appear  here  next  morning,  shame- 
faced because  he  couldn't  make  a  settlement  for  his  pa- 
pers and  was  too  loyal  to  tell  what  had  happened.  This 
sort  of  treatment  is  almost  an  every-day  occurrence, 
and  it  might  as  well  be  stopped.  There  is  no  law  to  act 
in  the  matter,  but  the  next  time  the  father  mistreats  that 
child  or  steals  money  from  him  to  spend  in  drink,  the 
writer,  who  will  learn  the  truth,  is  going  to  print  the 
name  of  the  father  and  indulge  in  the  nauseating  task 
of  dissecting  him  as  a  species  of  vampire  parent.  The 
father  will  read  this  and  will  understand  exactly  what 
is  meant.  He  can  very  easily  go  to  work  and  let  that  boy 
alone.  Otherwise  he  will  be  exposed  to  the  public  for 
being  the  sort  of  brute  that  he  really  is. 
*    *    * 

Mr.  Frank  Johnston,  12  years  old,  seller  of  newspa- 
pers and  denizen  of  The  Observer  press  room,  goes  over 
to  the  restaurant  and  quarrels  if  his  poached  eggs  are  not 
,  cooked  to  his  notion.  He  throws  down  a  dollar  in  pay- 
ment and  carelessly  jams  the  change  into  his  pocket. 
And  the  man  who  watched  him  found  a  thing  that  was 
wrong.  Mr.  Johnston  has  grown  old  too  quickly.  He 
has  learned  the  sweetness  of  independence,  but  he  is 

[6] 


IN  AND  ABOUT  A  NEWSPAPER  OFFICE 

missing  the  rarest  joy  of  living.  For  now  there  is  no 
one  to  give  Mr.  Jolmston  a  quarter,  and  a  quarter 
would  not  quicken  his  pulse  one  beat  if  'twere  given  him. 
Despite  his  tender  years,  he  can  never  have  the  most 
hallowed  experience  of  childhood.  To  be  given  a  quar- 
ter on  a  Saturday,  say!  To  feel  the  keen  little  thrill  in 
the  blood;  to  trot  down  the  walkway — trying  not  to 
run — to  face  the  open  street  and  the  stores  with  a  whole 
quarter  in  one's  pocket!  Man,  do  you  remember? 
And  have  you  ever  been  satisfied  with  any  amount  of 
money  that  you  had  except  just  that  childhood's  quar- 
ter ?  It  meant  mental  revelry,  the  great,  beautiful  gloat 
— the  sureness  of  purchasing  the  coveted  things  in  the 
world.  It  meant  transcendent  cause  for  envy — an  ad- 
mitted superiority  over  all  the  other  little  boys  who 
hadn't  quarters.  A  quarter  marked  the  chiefest  epoch 
in  life;  it  showed  you  to  be  a  bit  of  a  king  with  a  chat- 
tering troop  in  your  train — unquartered  subjects  who 
gazed  on  you  admiringly,  wistfully.  Your  small  heart 
well  nigh  burst  with  exultation — surging  so  in  its  fresh 
pcean  of  bliss. 

Ah,  you  lose,  Mr.  Johnston.     God  bless  you,  Mr. 
Johnston,  you  have  lost. 

Never  was  such  an  eel  as  the  devil  caught  the  other  The  Devil 
night.  The  red-headed  foreman,  who  is  an  authority  on  ^^ 
such  matters,  said  so,  and  the  fat  boy  who  attends  to 
the  engine  down  in  the  basement  swore  that  he  had 
caught  eels  from  Town  Creek  to  the  Catawba  and  he 
had  never  seen  such  a  fine  fish.  The  incident  marked, 
an  epoch  in  the  life  of  the  devil.     His  name  is  Van 

[7] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 
The  Devil  something;  he  is  any  age  under  sixteen,  and  he  goes 
^^  Eel  1^0^^  t*^  ^is  mother  at  the  break  of  day.  He  is  the  only 
child-thing  among  a  lot  of  men  who  feed  on  nerves  af- 
ter midnight;  and  his  big,  pathetic  eyes  and  cheerful 
face  rebuke  all  impatience  or  bad  language.  He  has 
never  known  anything  but  a  print  shop  and  his  mother, 
and  has  had  no  experiences  that  were  treasurable  until 
the  foreman  took  him  fishing  and  he  connected  with  the 
eel.  After  the  quick,  sharp  wrestle  on  the  side  of  Briar 
Creek  the  devil  laid  down  his  can  of  worms  and  his  short 
pole  with  the  twine  string  attached  and  plodded  back 
to  the  office.  'Rastus  was  his  sub  for  the  night,  but  for 
three  hours  the  devil  and  his  eel  exercised  the  preroga- 
tives of  the  managing  editor  with  right  of  way  over  As- 
sociated Press  stuff  and  murder  specials.  In  aU  his 
young  Hfe  this  was  the  first  time  that  the  devil  had  done 
anything  that  attracted  attention.  He  was  the  central 
figure  in  the  shop,  which  congratulated  him  as  heartily 
as  if  he  had  sand-bagged  a  whale,  and  he  was  so  thor- 
oughly happy  that  he  almost  cried.  The  eel  travelled 
everywhere  in  the  building — was  dragged  through  the 
coal  dust  down  stairs,  came  in  cold,  clammy  touch  with 
editorial  copy,  and  at  one  time  was  in  imminent  danger 
of  being  devoured  by  a  linotype  machine;  but  the  fish 
and  the  devil  came  off  triumphant.  They  finally  went 
out  on  the  streets  to  be  saluted  by  the  hack  drivers  and 
the  policemen,  who  know  the  devil  and  his  people.  And 
everybody  was  gracious  enough  to  say  that  of  all  the 
eels  that  were  ever  caught  in  the  whole  world,  nobody 
had  ever  caught  such  a  grand  specimen  as  that  carried 
by  the  devil. 

[8J 


m  AND  ABOUT  A  NEWSPAPER  OFFICE 

It  was  a  big,  beautiful  night  for  the  devil,  and  he  rev- 
elled in  his  fame.  At  4  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  was 
curled  up  in  a  chair  in  front  of  the  restaurant  with  the 
eel  stretched  across  his  knees.  His  hand  clutched  the 
stiffened  body,  and  as  he  dozed  he  waked  now  and  then 
to  gaze  with  rapture  into  dead  fish  eyes.  At  the  first 
streak  of  day  the  devil  trudged  home  to  his  mother,  with 
the  calm  of  a  great  peace  surging  through  his  tired, 
elated  body. 

The  city  editor  of  the  New  York  Sun  was  once  asked  The 
to  define  news.    After  some  thought  he  said :  Problem  ^ 

"If  a  dog  with  a  tin  can  tied  to  his  tail  runs  down 
Broadway  the  incident  is  worth  only  a  few  lines,  but  if 
a  dog  with  a  tin  can  tied  to  his  tail  walks  down  Broad- 
way the  thing  is  worth  a  column." 

You  see  the  idea.    'Tis  the  unusual  happening  that 
is  attractive  in  the  news  world;   and,  certainly,  the  ac- 
tion of  the  four  young  women  was  unusual  enough. 
*    *     * 

Beg  pardon  for  talking  shop;  but  did  you  ever  think 
about  the  disadvantages  of  trying  to  write  interesting 
stuff  in  a  place  hke  this  ?  Oh,  Charlotte  is  a  good,  big 
town,  and  the  living  here  is  probably  more  interesting 
than  in  any  other  place  in  the  South  of  the  same  size, 
but  there  is  very  little  that  transpires  here  day  after  day 
that  is  important  enough  to  demand  scare  head  lines. 
For  days  the  bottom  drops  out  of  everything.  Bill 
Jones  goes  to  Greensboro  on  a  business  trip.  Dr.  Stagg 
returns  to  Birmingham.  The  recorder  catches  a  crap- 
shooter.     The  gentleman  who  had  his  appendix  re- 

[9] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  moved  is  improving  gradually.  Crops  are  worse  than 
ftobfem  ^^^^'  Somebody  buys  a  gold  mine.  Delicious  refresh- 
ments were  served  at  another  party.  More  about  the 
union  depot.  You  know  how  it  runs,  don't  you?  It's 
orful.  There  are  no  assignments  as  there  are  in  the  big 
cities.  Nobody  considerately  murders  anybody  else,  and 
people  simply  won't  embezzle  or  elope  often  enough. 
Yet,  in  the  face  of  all  this,  the  reporter  has  got  to  stump 
around  and  rack  his  brain  in  kicking  up  something 
that  will  interest  somebody. 

The  test  is  keener  and  meaner  than  in  the  big  cities. 
Leg  work  allows  a  man  to  exhaust  the  news  field  with- 
out overmuch  difficulty,  and  then  he  has  to  see  in  hap- 
penings things  that  other  people  don't  see  and  build 
stories  out  of  nothing,  or  with  bare  ideas  as  skeletons. 

Hi      H^      * 

A  cub  reporter  here  is  far  more  interesting  than  a 
young  hyena.  He  gets  a  fresh  pad,  makes  spencerian 
notes,  and  after  carefully  sharpening  his  pencils  he  ex- 
tends welcome  to  every  person  who  comes  to  town  and 
sheds  a  tear  over  all  who  depart.  He  spends  an  hour 
in  relating  that  somebody  who  died  has  passed  away 
with  the  tide  and  was  a  consistent  member  of  the 
church  and  the  most  beloved  man  that  ever  was.  Then, 
the  cub  reporter,  conscious  of  having  done  his  duty, 
waits  for  assignments.  Assignments!  The  only  regu- 
lar kind  of  assignment  that  can  be  given  a  reporter  in  a 
place  of  this  size  is  to  say:  "There  are  30,000  people 
here.    All  of  them  can  talk  and  some  of  them  think. 

[10] 


IN  AND  ABOUT  A  NEWSPAPER  OFFICE 

Mix  with  them,  think  on  your  own  account,  and  keep  The 
your  eyes  very,  very  wide  open."  That's  the  feature  of  proj^leni  ^ 
the  game  here.  The  system  is  relentlessly  simple.  The 
cub  reporter  can  learn  to  see  or  he  can't  learn  to  see. 
He  is  absorptive  or  unreceptive ;  he  brings  every  scat- 
tered word  or  idea  into  account,  or  he  gets  no  impres- 
sion from  the  Hfe  about  him.  He  can  fasten  on  the 
quahty  of  interest  and  he  can  put  it  on  paper,  or  he 
can't.  By  an  indefinable  standard  he  defines  his  own 
worth,  and  he  will  rise  or  drop  out  of  the  game  alto- 
gether. 

*     *    * 

Take  the  four  women,  for  instance.  They  could  not 
fail  to  be  a  downright  blessing  to  a  newspaper  in  a  town 
that  is  so  limited  in  newspaper  opportunities  as  Char- 
lotte. They  were  respectable  women  and  pretty,  and 
the  minute  they  passed  those  men  in  front  of  the  Cen- 
tral Hotel  and  said  "  Good  evening!"  they  were  worth  a 
column.  They  could  not  have  done  anything  that 
made  them  worth  less  than  a  scare  head  and  a  column. 
They  might  have  been  arrested;  they  might  have  es- 
caped arrest;  they  might  have  gone  up  in  a  balloon;  or 
they  might  have  taken  the  next  car  for  home,  but  when 
they  electrified  a  hundred  people  by  speaking  to  half  a 
dozen  they  had  earned  1,200  words  in  a  newspaper. 
Two  newspaper  men  saw  the  women.  One  reporter 
was  interested  personally  and  waited  for  some  out-and- 
out  notorious  sensation.  He  was  disappointed  in  this, 
and  when  asked  for  his  story  about  the  occurrence  re- 
phed :  "  It  was  nothing.  Nothing  happened.  I  couldn't 
get  their  names,  and  they  got  home  all  right."    He  is  a 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  good  enough  man,  but  his  eyes  failed  to  see.  The  other 
Probfem  ^^^y  who  is  using  the  story  for  illustration  and  viewed 
the  whole  incident  merely  as  one  element  in  the  matter 
of  wage-earning,  dropped  everything  when  he  saw  the 
women,  and  from  that  time  until  he  sharpened  his  pen- 
cil at  his  desk  he  formed  paragraphs  in  his  head.  There 
was  nothing  else  to  do.  If  the  dog  walks,  walks,  mind 
you,  he  is  worth  anything.  .  .  .  The  unusual  thing  had 
occurred.  If  Col.  Wilhe  Phifer  would  quit  going  to 
Stout-on-the-Seaboard,  he  would  be  worth  half  a  col- 
umn a  day.  If  Osmond  Barringer  would  act  like  other 
people,  he  would  be  a  better  space-killer  than  the  cotton 
market.  If  Col.  Walter  Henry  wore  a  shirt-waist  in- 
stead of  his  long  frock  coat,  which  he  is  supposed  to 
sleep  in,  he'd  be  worth  a  page. 
*     *     * 

And,  it  is  repeated,  the  cub  reporter  will  see  or  he 
won't  see.  Happenings — you  can't  depend  upon  hap- 
penings. In  the  long,  wearisome  run  everything  de- 
pends just  upon  the  seeing,  the  understanding  and  the 
telling.  Red  Buck's  brother  Bob  was  up  in  Hunters- 
ville  a  few  years  ago  and  he  was  moved  to  emulate  Red 
Buck  and  write  a  piece  for  the  paper.  He  saw  two 
snakes  fight,  and  one  of  the  belhgerents,  a  king  snake, 
throttled  the  other  snake.  Quoth  Bob  in  a  cramped, 
boyish  hand:  "That  king  snake  certainly  done  his 
duty."  The  communication  called  for  an  editorial  and 
a  statement  from  the  Old  Man  that  Bob  could  go  on 
the  free  list  for  five  years  if  he  wanted  to.  Bob  had 
blundered  on  something  unique,  and,  no  matter  if  he 
had  blundered,  he  deserved  his  reward.     Red  Buck 

[12] 


IN  AND  ABOUT  A  NEWSPAPER  OFFICE 

himself  has  won  success  in  the  reportorial  world  because 
his  restless  eyes  are  always  open  to  see  and  he  analyzes 
closely  the  utterance  of  every  man. 

The  impulse  to  write  things  that  should  not  be  writ-  Unprintable 
ten  is  one  of  the  most  fearsome  problems  in  the  news-  appei"°gs 
paper  business.  Murders,  hangings,  hotel  building, 
tea  parties,  fights,  industrial  deals — these  and  a  lot  of 
other  matters  that  are  told  in  the  open  are  chronicled 
as  a  matter  of  course,  but  the  newspaper  man  pauses, 
trembling,  before  the  things  that  happen  and  yet  are 
discussed  in  a  whisper. 

These  are  the  subjects  that  you  lower  your  voice  to 
speak  of,  and  you  know  that  if  what  you  were  saying 
were  overheard  by  a  certain  person  you  might  get  your 
head  cracked.  Not  that  you  are  alone  in  your  knowl- 
edge— oh,  no.  You  are  quite  sure  that  a  lot  of  men  and 
half  the  women  in  town  are  telling  the  rest  of  the  popu- 
lation the  same  sensational  story  that  is  related  in  your 
undertone. 

Talk  of  this  kind  might  make  a  lurid,  scare-head 
story,  but,  usually,  it  cannot  be  touched  even  with  a 
single  guarded  sentence.  Here  enters  the  possible 
temptation  of  the  newspaper  man.  The  writer  has 
heard  in  the  club  or  hotels  or  elsewhere  talk  on  matters 
that  made  his  hair  bristle  with  excitement,  and  then  he 
has  had  to  come  here  and  write  that  the  chamber  of 
com^merce  had  postponed  its  meeting  to  some  other 
night  or  that  Col.  Willie  Phifer  had  spent  yesterday  at 
Stout-on- the- Seaboard,  He  didn't  crave  to  pubUsh 
scandal  or  risque  gossip,  but  he  knew  a  thing  or  two 
[13] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Unprintable  that  would  interest  everybody,  and  he  had  to  tell  a  tale 
Happenings  ^^^^  ^-gj^^  jj^^^j.^^^  nobody. 

The  unprintable  happenings  would  be  read  by  the 
world,  no  matter  if  the  world's  eyes  protruded  in  horror, 
and  nobody  knows  this  any  better  than  a  newspaper 
man.  Sometimes  the  danger  line  between  the  ques- 
tionable and  the  unquestionable  is  not  clearly  defined, 
and  in  the  hurry  of  a  print  shop  there  must  occasionally 
come  an  inclination  to  err  in  favor  of  sensation.  The 
writer  is  positive  that  he  could  get  out  one  issue  of  this 
paper  that  would  be  read  and  re-read  by  everybody  in  the 
country,  but  he  would  never  assist  in  getting  out  another 
issue.  He'd  be  killed  by  a  dozen  or  so  different  people, 
though  all  that  he  had  written  would  have  been  true. 

Of  course  this  would  be  going  the  limit,  but  this  side 
of  that  there  are  all  sorts  of  pitfalls  and  dangers.  The 
public,  you  know,  thinks  that  a  man  on  a  newspaper 
is  valued  because  he  knows  what  to  write,  but  the 
truth  is,  he  holds  his  job  because  he  ordinarily  knows 
what  not  to  write.  A  paragraph  below  this  would  con- 
tain a  dozen  lines,  could  relate  an  occurrence  and  a  hv- 
ing  truth  that  would  cause  30,000  people  to  sit  right 
straight  up  and  jabber  all  at  once,  but  the  writer  would 
demand  a  clean,  fair  start  for  the  other  side  of  the 
world  before  that  paragraph  was  printed. 
*    *    * 

Once  a  paper  owned  a  cub  reporter  who  found  noth- 
ing in  the  law  building,  court  house  or  depots,  and  then 
he  listened  to  the  uppermost  topic  of  conversation  at 
the  square.  He  came  to  the  shop  and  wrote  what  he 
had  heard — a  lot  of  simple  facts  that  would  have  sold 

[I4l 


IN  AND  ABOUT  A  NEWSPAPER  OFFICE 

more  papers  than  the  burning  of  the  Central  Hotel.  The 
story  was  killed,  but  the  next  article  by  the  reporter, 
which  averred  that  the  price  of  cotton  seed  in  the  local 
market  was  rapidly  rising,  was  duly  pubhshed  in  the 
paper.  The  reporter  is  no  longer  here.  He  didn't  know 
the  difference  between  printable  and  unprintable  stuff, 
and  therefore  he  was  more  dangerous  than  a  dynamite 

bomb. 

*    *    * 

Ideas?  Imagination?  No  use!  All  gone  with  the 
heat.  A  story  that  seemed  clever  a  while  ago  proved  as 
intractable  as  Mr.  D.  Allen  Tedder's  comical  tale  about 
a  sensation  at  the  Young  Peoples'  Baptist  Union  meet- 
ing. Another  lynching,  or  an  elopement,  or  a  sizable 
fight  at  the  square — any  of  these  would  have  been  such 
a  boon,  but  there  was  an  absolute  lack  of  enterprise. 
.  .  .  Did  you  ever  pick  up  a  pen  and  write  half  a  sen- 
tence, and  then  rest  your  face  on  your  hand  and  dream 
about  nothing  in  the  world — or  at  least  nothing  that  is 
writable  or  printable?  Well,  it's  like  that  here — now. 
Speaking  confidentially,  these  words  are  just  space- 
killers.  One  of  two  things  is  sure  to  happen  inside  the 
next  two  minutes.  The  writer  will  either  become  reck- 
less and  write  something  that  he  knows  he  ought  not  to 
write  and  has  been  crazy  to  write  for  two  weeks,  or  else 
he  will  avoid  temptation  by  strolling  over  and  asking 
the  Old  Man  to  walk  to  the  restaurant  and  have  a  pie. 

A  poem  in  yesterday's  Observer  dealt  critically  with  a  "Words, 
certain  class  of  adjectives  that  are  overworked  for  social    -y^or^gS* 
purposes,  and  was  in  the  nature  of  a  plea  for  new 
[15] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

"Words,  descriptive  words  to  take  the  place  of  "function," 
Words'"  "dainty,"  "delicious,"  "deHghtful,"  and  other  pink-tea 
terms.  As  a  protest  against  tiresome  iteration  the  poem 
took  safe  ground  for  criticism,  but  it  did  not  suggest — 
for  it  could  not  suggest — substitutes  for  the  hackneyed 
words.  The  burden  of  the  wearisome  repetition  falls 
most  heavily  upon  the  reporter,  and  yet  a  correct  use  of 
his  own  tools  leaves  him  helpless  in  the  rut.  There 
must  be  a  "function"  as  a  synonym  for  party,  enter- 
tainment or  reception,  and  all  of  these  must,  in  one  way 
or  another,  be  dainty,  or  delightful,  or  deHcious,  or 
charming.  There  must  be  "beauty"  in  a  wedding; 
grace  in  every  bride;  the  ceremony  must  be  impressive; 
and  the  presents  must  be  numerous  and  handsome. 
"Pleasure"  and  "enjoyment"  are  as  inevitable  as  smi- 
lax  and  candelabra.  In  the  social  department  of  a  pa- 
per, the  worn  words  must  move  in  a  circle,  doing  service 
overtime  and  wherever  men  and  women  gather  in  dress 
clothes.  The  terms  are  fixed  as  fate,  as  inexorable  as  the 
laws  of  nature,  and  they  do  duty  at  the  banquet  of  the 
princess  and  at  the  Sunday  dinner  party  of  the  milk- 
maid. 

It  is  not  given  to  the  writer  of  social  items  to  do  origi- 
nal or  sincere  work  habitually.  Occasionally  a  spec- 
tacular entertainment  of  the  Bradley-Martins  in  New 
York  or  a  new-game  party  in  the  smaller  towns  allows 
latitude  and  imported  platitudes  in  description,  but 
"en  regie"  and  "fin  de  siecle"  and  "recherche"  are by- 
the-way  pyrotechnics,  and  for  nearly  all  time  in  a  big 
cycle  the  reporter's  pencil  is  pointed  at — ^just  "charm- 
ing" and  "delicious"  and  "delightful." 

[i6] 


IN  AND  ABOUT  A  NEWSPAPER  OFFICE 

A  dead  line  blocks  the  way  out  of  the  thralldom  of  "Words, 
words.  Through  long  usage  the  adjectives  must  con-  -fords'" 
tinue  in  use ;  and  it  is  a  daring  spirit  who  is  simple  and 
direct  in  his  phrase.  When  Mrs.  B.,  a  prominent  so- 
ciety woman,  entertains,  it  may  be  presupposed  that 
she  gave  a  course  dinner,  that  everybody  had  enough  to 
eat,  and  that  pleasure  was  rampant,  yet  these  things 
must  be  said,  and  in  saying  them  it  is  not  easy  to  bar 
words  like  "charming,"  "delightful,"  "dainty."  The 
reporter  may  seek  for  other  verbiage,  he  may  cudgel  his 
poor  brain  for  tricks  of  inversion  and  novel,  piquant 
speech,  but  in  the  long  run  his  intellect  will  be  socially 
swamped  and  "charming"  will  again  rise  up  and  rest 
before  "function." 

*    *    * 

And  why  not?  Why  not  welcome  the  old  words — 
dear,  social  levellers  which  bless  the  hospitality  of  the 
rich  and  the  poor  alike?  "The  bride,  fair  to  see,  wore 
a  diamond  sunburst,  the  gift  of  the  groom.  She  looked 
regal,  charming,  graceful,  winsome.  ..."  Let  them 
all  stand.  The  only  proper  way  to  tell  a  thing  is  the 
simplest  way,  and  yet  the  world  looks  leniently  upon  a 
speech  that  must  make  every  "personality"  "delight- 
ful" and  every  "function"  a  "decided  social  success." 
And  "  charming"  ?  Why,  "  charming"  is  the  best  of  the 
lot;  it  is  so  easy,  so  natural,  to  say  "She  looked  charm- 
ing as  she  recited  her  marriage  vows,"  or  "She  gave  a 
charming  card  party,"  or  "We  hope  that  the  charming 
young  lady  from  Concord  will  visit  the  city  again  ere 
long. "  Aren't  these  averments  all  right  ?  Mr.  Manta- 
lini,  the  most  "delicious"  of  social  frauds,  always 
2  [17] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

played  a  trump  card  when  he  called  a  woman  a  "  demned 
chawmer." 

*  *    * 

There  comes  to  memory  the  pitiable  fate  of  one  re- 
porter who  sought  to  be  too  simple  and  original.  De- 
scribing the  costumes  that  were  worn  at  a  big  party,  he 
said:  "Mrs,  A,  had  on  nothing  that  was  remarkable." 
The  printer  man  found  a  period  too  many,  and  the 
sentence  appeared  in  the  paper:  "Mrs.  A.  had  on 
nothing.    That  was  remarkable." 

*  *    * 

The  Certainly  hope  you  won't  think  anything  personal  is 
°"m^  intended,  any  way.  The  writer  is  tired  of  being  jacked 
up  about  abstract  pleasantries.  Once  he  ventured  to 
say  something  in  a  jesting  way  about  the  particular 
brand  of  society  that  likes  to  nibble  oranges  on  the 
streets,  and  the  next  day  he  got  icy  glares  from  half  a 
dozen  people  who  had  really  learned  to  eat  ice  cream 
with  a  fork  and  olives  without  a  fork  several  years  ago. 
Words — poor,  misused  and  misunderstood  words — are 
ever  falling  about  and  striking  in  the  wrong  place, 
causing  hearts  to  quake  or  grow  hot;  and  half  the  uni- 
verse, thinking  on  idle  speech,  curses  the  other  half  all 
the  time.  Generahties  become  personalities  in  a  ser- 
mon, or  on  a  printed  page,  or  after  passing  the  second 
mouth  on  the  streets,  and  you  can't  be  an  independent 
pigmy  and  slur  at  mankind  without  getting  the  credit 
of  trying  to  jab  the  pruning  fork  into  your  neighbor 
around  the  corner.  And,  verily,  that's  what  you  are 
trying  to  do  no  matter  how  much  you  may  deny  it.  No 
man  ever  uttered  a  general  criticism  without  remem- 

[i8] 


IN  AND  ABOUT  A  NEWSPAPER  OFFICE 

bering  the  color  of  another  man's  eyes.  All  Athenians 
are  liars,  say  you,  and  you  see  only  Bill  Athenian,  who 
said  a  malicious  thing  about  you.  Life  is  a  poor,  weary 
game  and  people  are  tiresome,  say  you,  and  through 
the  immovable  mist  you  are  gazing  upon  the  faint  out- 
line of  one  woman — and  only  one  woman. 

"No  big,   pompous  tombstones,   no  high-sounding  "  Copy  all 
epitaphs  for  me,"  said  A.  B.  WilHams,  editor  of  The 
Richmond  News-Leader.    "All  I  want  'em  to  put  above 
my  head  is : 

"'Copy  all  in.'" 

To  me  that  expresses  everything — the  end  of  the 
game.  You  know  what  it  means,  of  course.  At  the 
end  of  so  many  weary,  weary  nights  I  have  scrawled 
the  words  as  the  finale  of  toil  and  as  the  good-by  to  my 
men.  'Copy  all  in' — and  sleep!  That  is  all — the  last 
of  life,  and  then — the  rest. 


In 


[19] 


CHAPTER  II 

CHARLOTTE  AND  HER  NEIGHBORS 

A  View  from  The  thing  to  do  for  the  stranger  within  the  gates  is  to 
the  Tower  ]-)etake  him  to  the  tower  of  the  D.  A.  Tompkins  Company- 
building.  The  citizen  of  Charlotte  who  thinks  he  has 
kept  pace  with  its  growth  and  knows  how  big  the  town 
is  ought  to  go  up  there  and  have  his  eyes  opened.  The 
big,  square  structure,  with  observatory  platform  under 
its  very  roof,  holds  its  head  above  all  the  steeples  and 
domes  in  the  city.  It  looks  high  from  the  street,  but  a 
realization  of  its  loftiness  is  to  be  gained  only  by  a  trip 
to  its  top,  and  really  the  ascent  to  the  Tompkins  tower 
is  one  of  the  treats  of  Charlotte. 

The  tower  is  equal  in  height  to  a  fourteen-story 
building  and  the  ascent  up  to  within  four  floors  of  the 
top  is  made  by  an  electric  elevator.  All  visitors  desir- 
ing to  make  the  ascent  are  met  by  a  polite  official  in 
the  store  room  on  the  first  floor,  where  they  register  their 
names.  There  an  attendant  is  assigned  them,  who 
accompanies  them  to  the  elevator  and  to  the  top 
and  designates  all  the  interesting  objects  in  the  land- 
scape. 

The  view  from  the  tower  is  an  extraordinarily  fine 
[20] 


CHARLOTTE  AND  HER  NEIGHBORS 

one.    North,  south,  east  and  west,  it  covers  every  street  A  View  from 

and  house  in  Charlotte,  and  the  suburban  towns  are  as       •'■o^fir 

plain  as  pictures  on  canvas.    Out  over  the  town  on  all 

sides  the  range  of  vision  extends  for  distances,  varying 

according  to  topography,  from  twelve  to  thirty  miles. 

One  building  near  Davidson  College  is  clearly  indicated, 

as  are  also  farmhouses  about  Sharon  church.    The  view 

of  the  mountains  is  surprisingly  fine.    Not  only  are  a 

dozen  or  more  individual  peaks  clearly  outhned,  but 

back  of  them  and  towering  high,  but  in  a  paler  blue,  is 

seen  the  Blue  Ridge  range.    The  peaks  and  the  range 

are  visible  to  the  naked  eye. 

The  best  view  of  the  mountains  is  to  be  obtained  in 
the  forenoon,  when  the  sun  shines  upon  them,  but  at 
any  hour  of  the  day  the  view  from  the  Tompkins  tower 
is  an  interesting  one.  At  first  the  visitor  is  struck  with 
the  oddity  of  the  roof  effect  of  Charlotte,  and  next  with 
the  intensified  volume  of  the  roar  of  traffic.  The  bang 
and  rattle  of  a  loaded  truck  passing  in  the  street  below 
seems  tenfold  greater  at  this  height  than  it  does  on 
the  street  level.  The  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs  and 
the  exhaust  of  steam  engines  come  up  with  piercing 
keenness. 

The  charm  of  the  view,  however,  is  the  picture  of 
moving  Hfe,  the  living  current  of  people  and  vehicles, 
the  smoke  from  the  factories  and  the  exhaust  of  the 
railroad  engines  on  the  four  sides  of  the  town.  The 
long,  curved  trestle  from  Fourth  street  to  Mint  street,  . 
with  the  shifting  engines  going  to  and  fro  over  it,  is 
strikingly  like  a  section  of  elevated  railroad.  In  what- 
ever direction  one  looks,  the  horizon  is  blotted  with 

[21] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

&.  View  from  factory  smoke.  Closer  in  on  the  north,  south,  east 
Tower  ^^^  ^^^^  ^-^q  black  puffs  from  railroad  engines  is 
pierced  by  the  ascending  columns  of  exhaust  steam. 
A  beautiful  picture  of  a  busy  and  thrifty  city  is  framed 
in  the  white  and  black  of  the  steam  and  smoke  of 
industry. 

This  view  of  Charlotte  and  surrounding  country  is 
entrancing  in  itself,  but  if  the  visitor  happens  to  be  in 
the  tower  in  the  late  afternoon,  there  is  injected  in  the 
landscape  to  the  south  something  that  is  worth  looking 
at.  It  is  the  coming  of  the  local  train  from  Atlanta,  If 
the  afternoon  is  still,  there  will  be  seen  on  the  western 
horizon,  rounding  King's  Mountain,  a  puff  of  black 
smoke  which  slowly  rises,  spreads  and  hangs  in  the  air. 
Then  another  will  rise  in  front  of  it,  and  a  short  distance 
nearer  still  another.  That  is  the  trail  of  the  incoming 
train.  The  black  smoke  is  emitted  as  the  train  is  com- 
ing up  the  grades,  and  when  it  is  first  seen  the  cars  are 
perhaps  two  miles  in  front  of  it.  The  course  of  the 
train  can  be  outUned  by  the  overhanging  clouds  of 
smoke  until  suddenly  the  engine  darts  into  view 
through  the  deep  cut  on  the  Dowd  farm  two  miles  dis- 
tant. It  is  down  grade  there,  and  the  train  comes  flying 
into  sight  with  black  smoke  and  white  steam  streaming 
back  Hke  ribbons  over  the  roofs  of  the  cars.  In  a  few 
seconds  the  whole  train  comes  into  view  as  it  crosses 
the  big  trestle  to  the  west  of  the  city,  then  it  is  alternately 
hidden  as  it  goes  through  cuts  and  under  the  foliage  of 
trees,  until  three  blocks  away  it  is  seen  creeping  into  the 
train  yard.  For  many  minutes  after  it  has  reached  the 
depot  the  route  of  the  train  is  outhned  in  the  western 

[22] 


CHARLOTTE  AND  HER  NEIGHBORS 

skies  by  a  lazily  rising,  sinuous  cloud  of  smoke.  The 
Charlotte  citizen  who  has  not  been  on  top  of  the  Tomp- 
kins tower  does  not  know  Charlotte  at  all. 

The  unconscious  action  of  the  inhabitants,  and  not  a  The  Ear- 
flattering  census  or  a  few  more  milHons  in  investments,  ^^  s  o  a 
indicates  the  transformation  of  a  place  from  a  town 
into  a  city.  By  virtue  of  certain  unmistakable  tokens 
Charlotte  has  passed  through  the  transition  stage  and 
has  become  a  sure-enough  city.  A  strange  woman 
wearing  a  Parisian  gown,  her  body  at  a  forward  in- 
cline of  forty-five  degrees,  and  a  poodle  in  evening  dress, 
may  parade  the  streets  without  causing  a  block  in 
traffic  or  bringing  all  the  shopkeepers  to  their  windows. 
Recently  a  revival  and  a  ball  were  in  progress  on  the 
same  night;  and  the  city  officials  do  not  drop  their 
work  and  follow  a  brass  band,  Residents  who  travel 
abroad  and  return  are  no  longer  surrounded  at  the 
square  and  eagerly  questioned  about  the  private  life  of 
the  King  or  the  Pope.  Each  street  offers,  without  un- 
due vanity,  tailor-made  and  hand-embroidered  exhib- 
its ;  and  a  whole  week,  instead  of  a  day,  may  be  required 
to  carry  a  choice  bit  of  scandal  into  every  part  of  the 
town.  And  the  preachers  no  longer  attend  courts; 
plenty  of  people  stay  away  from  funerals;  you  may 
dodge  a  creditor  for  days  without  remaining  in  hiding; 
the  country  mules  do  not  shy  at  automobiles  or  silk 
hats  walking  around  on  week  days ;  every  other  woman 
doesn't  speak  to  every  other  baby  that  she  meets,  and 
no  one  thinks  about  fainting  when  a  Charlotte  woman 
goes  off  to  get  a  Ph.D.  vocal  degree  and  comes  home 
[23]     , 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

singing  in  a  high  Dutch  or  broken  Eye-talian.    In  fine, 
Charlotte  has  all  the  ear-marks  of  a  city. 

Excursion-  The  excursionists  had  possession  of  the  town  last 
week  and,  apparently,  were  the  happiest  people  in  the 
place.  Most  of  them  came  from  the  thinly  settled 
wayback  districts,  and  when  they  landed  here  they 
found  novelty  and  pleasure  in  each  step  of  investiga- 
tion. They  fixed  a  new  valuation  on  the  street  cars  and 
on  the  smooth  excellence  of  the  macadamized  roads; 
they  inspected  the  old  Spanish  cannon  in  front  of  the 
post  office  with  greedy  curiosity;  in  pleased  way  they 
clustered  around  the  iron  slab  at  Independence  Square ; 
they  read,  with  eager  interest,  the  names  on  the  monu- 
ment in  front  of  the  court  house;  they  gazed  with  awe 
upon  the  ponderous  proportions  of  Col,  Tom  Black,  of 
the  police  force;  they  became  satiated  epicures  at  the 
soda  fountains ;  and  they  returned  home  tired  but  filled 
with  content. 

One  was  allowed  to  see  the  perfect  excursion,  which 
can  never  leave  a  city  or  carry  city  folks.  The  ideal  ex- 
cursionist owns  no  Panama  hat  or  private  bath  tub,  and 
he  is  unacquainted  with  the  fascination  of  a  highball. 
He  demands  nothing  as  of  right  and  has  no  unflattering 
comparison  to  make;  and  he  is  deHghted  and  satisfied 
with  all  he  sees  and  gets.  He  is  youthful,  with  the 
chief  capacity  for  tending  cows,  or  he  is  the  toiHng  head 
of  a  household,  with  scant  knowledge  of  the  world  out- 
side his  own  country.  The  excursion  represents  a  new 
phase  of  living  or  marks  an  epoch  in  his  life ;  it  stands 
for  a  great  want  that  comes  but  seldom  in  a  lifetime; 

[24] 


CHARLOTTE  AND  HER  NEIGHBORS 

and  the  dusty  ride  and  the  sights  and  the  strange  mul- 
titude at  the  end  of  the  journey  appease  the  want  and 
fill  the  traveler  with  new  sensations  and  impressions. 

To  fully  appreciate  the  joys  of  an  excursion  one 
must  have  lived  in  a  small  town  and  owned  a  very  par- 
ticular best  Sunday  suit  of  clothes.  Then  an  excursion 
is  glorified  like  Christmas,  and,  anticipating  it,  the 
blood  quickens  in  the  veins  and  sleep  does  not  come 
easily.  The  excursionist  goes  forth  with  the  pleasure- 
heart,  and  no  untoward  event  can  debar  perfect  happi- 
ness. He  is  healthy  enough  to  feel  the  great  Want,  and 
the  hurly-burly  and  unfamiliar  excitements  gratify  the 
simple  bigness  of  his  wish.  The  denizens  of  the  place 
that  he  visits  may  look  upon  him  in  an  amused  or  com- 
passionate way,  but  he  knows,  and  the  gods  know,  that 
he  is  blessed  by  the  gods.  If  the  pleasure  that  he  found 
right  here  were  infectious  the  whole  town  would  fall  to 
laughing  and  shaking  hands,  and  there  would  be  token 
of  the  millennium  of  peace  and  good-will.  An  excursion 
is  a  twentieth-century  trip  to  Wonderland,  which  offers 
weariness  and  boredom  to  the  inhabitants  only. 

You  notice  that  Charlotte  people  are  going  to  Eu-  Cosmopoli- 
rope.  For  a  long  time  they  did  most  of  their  sightseeing  ^^^^^ 
in  New  York,  but  ten  or  fifteen  years  ago  a  resident 
spent  three  months  in  Germany  and  came  back  speaking 
broken  English,  and  in  recent  years  another  resident 
returned  from  England,  saying,  "I  seen  the  Queen." 
Since  then  the  exodus  to  Europe  has  been  steady,  and 
it  is  singular  that  as  travel  increases  there  is  less  talk  in 
Mecklenburg  of  the  wonders  of  the  foreign  lands.  The 
[25] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

grand  trip  has  become  a  matter-of-fact,  every-day  sort 
of  a  proposition,  and  the  village  query,  "What  did  you 
see  while  you  were  gone?"  seldom  has  birth  here.  But 
the  injection  of  a  be-travelled  cosmopolitan  element 
into  the  community  is  already  doing  good.  It  strikes  a 
blow  at  conceit,  narrowness  and  the  provincialism  that 
is  satisfied  to  sit  eternally  in  a  small  area  and  judge 
surely  and  dogmatically  the  world  and  the  things  of  the 
world.  Every  man  who  is  not  a  fool  is  a  better  citizen 
after  he  goes  far  enough  from  his  bailiwick  to  realize 
his  smallness  and  utter  ignorance. 

Mr.  The  scene  at  the  depot  when  the  President's  train 
I  0^10^16  P^'^^c<^  i^  was  an  animated  one.  The  crowd  filled  the 
train  yard  from  end  to  end,  and  the  number  of  ladies 
present  was  a  conspicuous  feature.  Although  ample 
notice  had  been  given  of  the  coming  of  the  President's 
train,  no  arrangement  had  been  made  for  his  reception 
by  the  depot  people.  It  was  the  same  old  Southern  de- 
pot, with  baggage  and  express  trucks  here  and  there, 
cars  standing  on  the  tracks  in  the  yard,  and  the  same 
dim,  dingy  and  gloomy  lights  casting  their  shadows 
over  it  all.  When  the  President's  train  came  to  a  stop, 
the  rear  coach  was  far  below  the  depot  and  several  de- 
tached passenger  coaches  were  on  a  track  alongside  of 
it.  The  crowd  had  to  squeeze  between  these  cars  and 
the  President's  coach,  and  an  immovable  jam  ensued. 
Only  the  few  who  could  crowd  into  the  narrow  space 
were  fortunate  enough  to  either  see  or  hear  the  Presi- 
dent. 
Mr.  Roosevelt  went  to  the  rear  platform  as  soon  as  his 
[26] 


CHARLOTTE  AND  HER  NEIGHBORS 

train  came  to  a  stop  and  seemed  to  take  in  the  situation  Mr. 

at  a  glance.    He  leaned  out  and  looked  forward  over  in°chibtte 

the  great  mass  of  people.    Holding  his  silk  hat  in  his 

right  hand  and  waving  command  with  his  left,  he  said : 

"Now  come  along  here,  quick.    You  people  who  are  in 

front  move  around  this  way  to  the  rear  and  right  of  the 

car.    Move  along!    Step  lively!  That's  it!"    The  crowd 

surged  about  until  the  President  saw  that  there  was  not 

a  foot  more  of  space.    "  Well,"  he  said,  "  this  seems  to  be 

about  the  best  I  can  do.    I  am  afraid  if  I  keep  on  I'll 

spend  all  my  time  trying  to  get  the  crowd  arranged  and 

not  get  to  saying  anything,  after  all." 

"What  about  the  Mecklenburg  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence?" some  one  in  the  crowd  shouted. 

Quick  as  a  flash,  and  in  tones  as  clear  as  a  bell,  came 
the  response:  "The  Mecklenburg  Declaration  of  In- 
dependence is  all  right." 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  continued  the  President, 
"I  cannot  express  the  pleasure  it  has  given  me  to  meet 
the  people  of  the  South,  and  I  can  scarcely  find  words 
to  express  my  appreciation  of  the  reception  that  has 
been  accorded  me.  Some  one  has  just  now  asked  me 
what  I  think  of  the  Mecklenburg  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence. Here  in  Charlotte  was  made  the  first  Decla- 
ration of  Independence  ever  made  in  the  United  States." 
The  President  then  spoke  of  the  spirit  that  animated 
the  people  of  this  section  in  the  early  days  of  the  coun- 
try and  of  the  part  they  took  in  the  revolutionary  strug- 
gles. He  praised  the  patriotic  spirit  of  the  South  as  evi- 
denced in  the  Spanish-American  war,  and  singled  out 
North  Carolina  as  worthy  of  particular  credit.  "In 
[27] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Charleston  yesterday,"  he  said,  "I  reviewed  your  pro- 
visional regiment  of  troops,  and  it  was  as  fine  a  body  of 
soldiers  as  I  ever  saw." 

Just  at  this  point  the  President's  train  began  moving 
out.  Abruptly  breaking  off  his  speech,  he  shouted  so 
that  almost  everybody  in  the  train  yard  could  hear:  "I 
want  to  say  this:  During  the  Cuban  campaign  I  once 
had  occasion  to  select  twenty  sharpshooters.  Two  of 
the  twenty  were  North  Carolinians!" 

These  were  the  President's  final  words.  As  the  train 
pulled  out,  Mr.  Roosevelt  leaned  over  the  railing  of  the 
platform,  waving  his  hat  and  bowing.  Mrs.  Roosevelt 
stood  by  his  side,  smihng  in  thorough  delight  at  the  cor- 
diality of  her  husband's  reception  in  Charlotte. 

In  Sunday  Standing  at  the  square  yesterday  in  the  forenoon,  one 
saw  nearly  all  Charlotte  going  to  church.  'Twas  a 
grand  sight — a  well-dressed  multitude.  The  place  is 
still  small  enough  for  every  one  to  know  the  Sunday 
clothes  of  every  one  else ;  and  yesterday  there  was  a  pleas- 
ant rustle  of  new  silks  and  the  creak  of  new  shoes.  Sun- 
day clothes!  They're  martyrdom  up  to  fifteen  years  of 
age;  an  embarrassment  until  20;  a  joy  until  30;  and 
after  that  just  a  necessity  and  a  disillusionment.  Sun- 
day clothes  mean  the  big,  hallowed  moments  of  youth 
and  the  philosophy  of  the  after  years.  The  hght-gray 
suit  is  as  the  vital  presence  of  the  fresh  glories  of  spring- 
time, the  quick-pulsed  blood  and  the  faint  perfume  of  a 
slender  girl's  hair;  but  the  light-gray  suit  blushes  under 
the  cool  glare  of  the  long,  dark,  dignified  coat,  which 
has  ceased  to  garb  pleasure  and  vanity  and  looks  scorn- 

[28] 


CHARLOTTE  AND  HER  NEIGHBORS 

fully  on  the  pampering  of  frail  tabernacles.  Sunday 
clothes  pick  up  the  happiness  that  is  lost  when  one 
ceases  to  go  barefooted;  they  contain  or  reflect  the 
rarest  happiness  until  eyes  lose  lustre,  and  then  Sunday 
clothes  go  to  funerals — all  sorts  of  funerals. 
*    *    * 

But 

"Manhood  has  no  joys  so  lustrous; 
Nothing  that  so  gladsome  seems — " 

As  the  first  pair  of  trousers. 

The  Southern  Manufacturers'  Club  in  this  city  is  Music  at 
making  some  odd  experiments  in  music.  It  has  a  piano  ®  ^  ^" 
and  a  Cecilian,  and  gets  pretty  much  all  the  latest  music 
by  a  system  of  swapping  old  tunes  for  new  tunes.  About 
fifty  members  of  the  club  keep  the  Cecilian  working 
from  8  o'clock  in  the  morning  until  1 1 :30  at  night.  It 
has  been  discovered  that  everybody  gets  tired  of  even 
the  best  pieces  of  modern  music  in  about  ten  days.  The 
members  have  run  the  gamut  of  all  the  light  operas,  rag- 
time music,  and  the  most  celebrated  output  of  modern 
composers,  and  always  retire  each  of  these  inside  a 
fortnight.  Isadore  Rush  sang  "Egypt,"  and  the  club 
sent  a  special  delivery  for  that  song.  It  was  played  704 
times  the  first  day  it  arrived,  a  fortnight  ago,  but  was 
played  only  once  yesterday.  This  week  "Egypt"  will 
die.  In  a  word,  the  Southern  Manufacturers'  Club,  a 
representative  organization  of  this  cultured  section,  has 
decided  that  no  piece  of  music  that  has  been  written  in 
the  last  four  or  five  years  is  worth  Hving.  The  CeciHan 
has  tried  almost  everything,  and  it  has  made  that  piano 
[29] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

do  more  hard  work  than  any  other  piano  ever  did  in  a 
quarter  of  a  century.  Up  there  where  a  man  betrays  a 
soulful  expression  by  the  movement  of  the  muscles  in 
the  calves  of  his  legs,  only  three  pieces  of  music  have 
been  selected  to  live,  the  "Intermezzo,"  "La  Paloma," 
and  "The  Last  Rose  of  Summer." 
*    *    * 

Beds  of  In  front  of  the  residences  on  the  principal  streets — or 
Vio  ets  ^Yl  the  streets — in  this  city  there  are  Uving  violet  beds ; 
and  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  town  will  never  grow  so 
large  or  so  citified  as  to  prevent  the  growing  of  these 
tender,  country  violets  right  in  its  very  heart.  They 
are,  in  some  way,  a  symbol  of  daintiness,  freshness, 
purity.  They  best  become  a  maiden  or  a  womanly 
woman,  and  they  are  a  silent  rebuke  to  a  woman  who 
is  bad.  And  one  knows,  somehow,  that  a  woman  who 
goes  out  and  fusses  over  violet  beds  and  really  loves  the 
little  human  things  has  the  right  kind  of  a  soul.  There 
is  no  reason  for  saying  this ;  it  is  another  one  of  the  just- 
so  things.  All  other  flowers  are — flowers,  but  violets 
grow  and  whisper  in  the  innocent  realm  that  can  only 
be  seen  by  a  baby's  eyes  and  are  the  first  offering  in  the 
kingdom  where  love  must  give  the  right  gift  to  love. 

Small      The  small  towns  in  this  State  are  interesting  affairs. 

Towns  pgQpig  living  in  them  have  such  an  unlimited  amount 
of  things  to  talk  about.  In  the  bigger  places  folk  some- 
times get  tired  of  conveying  inteUigence  to  other  folks, 
but  in  little  towns  people  cease  conversation  only  when 
they  go  to  bed.  It  is  a  very  happy  existence.  One  may 
be  tired  for  a  while,  but  after  the  first  few  months  he 

[30] 


CHARLOTTE  AND  HER  NEIGHBORS 

whittles  sticks  with  the  rest  of  the  population  and  be- 
comes a  fixture.  Wentworth,  down  in  Rockingham 
county,  is  an  ideal  hamlet  for  that  sort  of  thing.  Went- 
worth surrendered  to  CornwalHs  and  fought  Cotton 
Mather's  doctrines,  but  since  then  other  men  have  sur- 
rendered to  Wentworth  and  have  garnered  cobwebs  and 
lived  in  peace.  Right  now  in  Wentworth  there  are 
men  who  sit  around  open  fires  with  their  coats  off  who 
might  be  running  the  Government  or  assisting  Panama. 
In  Wentworth  and  larger  North  Carolina  towns  there 
is  such  an  incessant  amount  of  matters  to  get  excited 
about,  apart  from  the  growth  of  weeds  in  court-house 
yards  or  an  unfortunate  remark  that  was  dropped  at  a 
Sunday-school  social.  This  is  no  criticism  of  small 
towns.  Bless  them  all!  They  breed  the  biggest  men, 
the  rarest  news,  and  the  biggest  liars.  And  such  love  is 
awakened  in  small-town  citizenship !  What  is  Boston  to 
Hillsboro,  Paris  to  Morganton,  or  St.  Petersburg  to 
Lincolnton  ?  What  is  a  metropolis  compared  to  a  town 
where  one  has  speaking  acquaintance  with  every  dog 
that  he  meets,  knows  every  face  in  a  congregation,  and 
is  permitted  to  add  his  hush-note  to  the  last  dear  song  of 
gossip.  The  privileges  of  a  small  town  are  many  and 
each  one  has  an  interrogation  point  after  it.  But  when 
you're  sick,  they  all  send  you  things  to  eat,  and  when 
you  die  the  heartfelt  sob  is  heard  above  the  wail  of  the 
httle  organ.  One  would  go  back  to  the  small  town  just 
as  the  stag  goes  back  to  die  at  the  place  he  was  'roused. 

Lincolnton  need  not  get  worried  over  being  called  Lincolnton 
sleepified.    A  compliment  was  intended.    The  Lincoln- 

[31] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

ton  people  have  plenty  of  money  and  cotton  mills  and 
enterprise,  and  they  can  lead  the  universe  in  cooking 
beaten  biscuits;  but  the  town  is  sleepified  just  the 
same.  Nice  sleepified!  There  are  no  end  of  moss- 
covered  wells  there,  and  shade  trees  and  vine-covered 
porches;  there  is  an  insectish  drone  in  the  atmosphere; 
a  mule  standing  in  front  of  the  post-office  drops  into 
slumber;  the  voice  of  a  woman  calling  a  child  arouses 
one  like  a  challenge  and  can  be  heard  a  mile ;  a  gentle- 
man from  the  country  tilts  his  chair  against  the  side  of  a 
store  and  snores.  That's  Lincolnton — bless  it!  Stay 
there  a  month  and  time  may  hang  heavily  on  your 
hands;  stay  there  two  months  and  you  never  want  to 
live  anywhere  else.  When  you're  well,  everybody  knows 
what  you  have  to  eat;  when  you're  sick,  everybody 
sends  you  things  to  eat.  That's  Lincolnton — dear,  old 
sleepified  Lincolnton. 

Taylorsville  The  new  court-house  at  Taylorsville,  Alexander 
county,  will  have  no  bell.  The  old  court-house  has  a 
bell,  which  the  writer  has  previously  emphasized  as  the 
most  interesting  bell  in  North  Carolina.  Formerly  that 
bell  rang  whenever  a  beef  was  killed — rang  out  the  tid- 
ings of  salutations  and  felicitations.  The  residents  of 
the  community  might  be  drowsing  of  a  peaceful  sum- 
mer day,  but  when  the  bell  pealed  forth  there  was  a 
sudden  and  remarkable  activity  as  all  hands  sprinted 
to  view  the  cow  that  had  died ;  and,  as  the  residents  ran, 
many  were  the  joyous  bets  as  to  whether  the  late  de- 
ceased was  a  heifer  or  a  plain,  unvarnished  bull  year- 
lin'.    With  the  next  court-house  that  dear  old  bell  will 

[32] 


CHARLOTTE  AND  HER  NEIGHBORS 

go  forever — alas !    An  Alexander  cow  must  die  silently, 
with  a  bitter  tear  in  her  eye. 

All  of  the  circus  was  not  under  canvas.  Circus  Day 

The  day  was  unusual.  It  was,  as  Col.  Tom  Black 
predicted,  a  record-breaking  circus  day.  Fourteen 
thousand  people  saw  the  afternoon  performance,  and 
such  attendance  was  considered  marvellous,  even  in  a 
city  where  the  circus  numbers  its  devotees  from  the 
oldest  to  the  youngest  member  of  every  household. 

And  certainly  10,000  people — and  may  be  20,000 
people — got  drenched — not  wet  after  the  usual  fash- 
ion, but  wet  in  a  cosy,  complete  way  that  caused  the 
proud  crests  of  women's  hats  to  droop  soggily,  sent 
their  bedraggled  skirts  under  their  heels  as  they 
walked,  and  caused  the  color  of  a  man's  hat  to  show  in 
the  hurrying  raindrops  as  they  fell  from  the  tip  of  his 
nose. 

Bunched  in  front  of  the  circus  tent  were  the  be- 
soaked;  bunched  they  were  in  town;  and  betwixt  and 
between  they  scurried  like  so  many  dismal,  rain-reeking 
sheep,  or  like  a  multitude  of  principals  who  were  re- 
turning from  a  colossal  baptizing. 

Such  is  a  cursory  view  of  the  main  features  of  yester- 
day in  Charlotte. 

*    *    * 

In  gala  day  attire  and  mood  Charlotte  turned  out  en 
masse,  but  Charlotteans  were  hardly  to  be  recognized 
in  the  scurrying  throng.  In  a  night  and  a  day  a  new 
population  had  sprung  up ;  had  come  here  on  trains,  in 
carriages,  wagons,  and  in  all  manner  of  vehicles;  had 
3  [23] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Circus  Day  walked  here.  Strangers  strolled  familiarly  on  the 
streets,  and  took  major  part  in  the  festivities.  They 
came  from  all  near-by  towns  and  from  distant  places; 
and  they  appeared  in  silk  hats,  in  celluloid  collars,  and 
in  the  homespun  clothes  that  mark  the  mountaineers 
from  Yancey,  Mitchell,  Wilkes,  and  other  mountain 
counties.  The  city  had  lost  its  complexion.  It  was  a 
mere  bump  on  the  earth  where  humanity  disported  it- 
self hke  a  seething  mass  of  ants,  and  forgot  dull  care  in 
a  thirst  for  a  sight  of  the  elephant  and  Pierrot  gambol- 
ling in  the  aroma  of  clean,  sweet  sawdust. 

By  daylight  the  visiting  gentlemen  from  Bakersville, 
Burnsville,  and  North  Wilkesboro  had  fed  their  horses 
and  had  taken  positions  where  they  might  get  an  un- 
disturbed view  of  the  grand  parade.  The  great  ma- 
jority of  these  came  here  just  to  see  the  parade;  rode 
the  best  part  of  two  days  and  suffered  the  inconvenience 
of  camping  out  to  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  seeing  their 
lordships  the  lion  and  the  kangaroo  ride  past  in  stately 
splendor  and  to  sit  in  critical  judgment  upon  the  new 
melodies  that  were  to  be  wafted  from  the  steam  piano. 
To  them  the  parade  was  the  beginning  and  end  of  all 
things  wonderful.  Fifty  cents  meant  admission  into 
the  Place  Beautiful,  where  the  monkey  claims  a  lawful 
and  honorable  place  in  man's  estate,  and  where  a 
woman,  who  stands  on  one  foot  on  a  flying  horse  and 
kisses  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  may  become  a  more  endur- 
ing vision  than  the  most  fantastic  conception  of  beauty 
that  might  come  to  one  who  stood  on  Pisgah's  top  and 
saw  heaven  in  the  majesty  of  the  rolling  clouds. 

So  visitors  from  the  backwoods  districts  and  thou- 
[34] 


CHARLOTTE  AND  HER  NEIGHBORS 

sands  of  others  waited  only  on  the  feast  that  came  with  Circus  Day 
the  parade  and  found  therein  satisfaction  to  the  utmost. 

By  nine  o'clock  dense  crowds  of  people  lined  the  thor- 
oughfares along  the  length  of  South  Tryon  street  and 
down  North  Tryon  street  as  far  as  Ninth  street.  The 
crowd  thickened,  and  yet  more  people  came  out  to 
wait  and  see.  At  eleven  o'clock  traffic  along  the  line  of 
march  was  almost  completely  blocked.  At  the  square 
men  touched  elbows  on  every  foot  of  space.  Sidewalks, 
bulging  with  humanity,  thrust  loads  into  the  streets, 
and  every  porch,  every  window,  every  veranda  was 
packed. 

Good  nature  was  everywhere  manifested.  The  day 
was  unseasonably  warm,  and  men  jostled  one  another 
at  every  step,  and  yet  the  spirit  of  jollity  was  writ  large 
on  every  face,  and  laughter  rang  out  above  the  hum  of 
conversation. 

The  parade,  coming  shortly  after  noon,  brought  the 
noiseless  appreciation  that  betokens  success.  There 
was  no  applause.  "Going  to  see  a  circus,"  remarked 
the  Old  Man,  "is  like  periodical  drinking.  No  man 
would  care  to  see  a  circus  two  days  running,  but  once 
a  year  the  world  gets  hungry  for  the  sight  of  a  clown." 

And  so,  along  the  long  line,  there  was  the  quick  gasp 
of  dehght  that  surcharged  the  atmosphere.  The  eyes  of 
the  aged  citizen  glistened;  the  face  of  the  little  boy  ra- 
diated silent  joy.  The  clown  was  as  glorious  as  the 
bearded  king  who  rode  on  his  chariot,  and  who,  indeed, 
would  have  been  bold  enough  to  choose  between  a  bear 
and  a  red  brass  band? 

The  show  did  not  begin  until  two  o'clock,  but  an  hour 
[35] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Circus  Day  and  a  half  before  that  time  an  army  of  people  began 
entrance  into  the  portals  of  the  big  canvas.  The  crowd 
adjusted  itself  perfectly  and  never  seemed  to  get  in  its 
own  way;  and  while  the  large  first  tent  containing  the 
animals  and  the  free  attractions  was  full  at  all  times 
before  the  performance  began,  yet  the  congestion  was 
constantly  being  relieved  by  the  tide  that  swept  on  and 
deposited  its  human  freight  in  the  spacious  arnpithe- 
atre. 

But  the  reporter  paused  and  communed  with  the 
animals  and  lingered  to  hear  the  words  that  fell  from 
the  lips  of  the  bearded  lady. 

The  parade  indicated  what  the  menagerie  of  Barnum 
&  Bailey's  would  be.  It  is  solid — as  sohd  as  wealth 
and  wide  experience  can  devise — as  solid,  in  point  of 
instruction,  as  a  book  on  natural  philosophy.  There 
were  no  frills.  There  were  monkeys,  but  not  enough 
monkeys  to  raise  unseemly  chatter,  while  there  were 
not  too  many  remnants  of  extinct  species  to  arouse  sus- 
picion. The  six  and  twenty  elephants  fixed  the  stand- 
ard for  the  menagerie.  Everything  was  elephant-strong 
and  elephant-good — good  as  twenty-carat  gold — good 
enough  to  check  levity  and  bring  sober,  respectable  in- 
terest to  a  sea  of  faces. 

The  reporter  drifted  with  the  crowd  and  cursed  bit- 
terly because  he  was  denied  the  gift  to  paint  the  fresh, 
human  pictures  that  faced  him  wherever  he  looked. 
*    *    * 

The  animals  inside  the  cages  deserved  the  attention 
given  by  those  outside.  After  satisfying  his  curiosity, 
one  passed  by  the  Red  River  hog  of  West  Africa  and  the 

[36] 


CHARLOTTE  AND  HER  NEIGHBORS 

Collar  bear  from  Thibet,  and  paused  in  front  of  the  Circus  Day 
cages  that  held  the  trained  lions  from  Nubia  and  the 
tigers  from  India,  The  sight  of  these  lions  alone  was 
worth  the  price  of  admission.  They  were  grave,  stately 
beasts,  not  fussy,  but  dignified,  gazing  into  nothing- 
ness with  a  far-away  expression  in  their  eyes.  Their  se- 
vere demeanor  seemed  to  rebuke  the  fretfulness  of  the 
puma  and  others  of  the  lesser  cat  tribe  who  roamed  up 
and  down  in  near-by  cages.  The  lion — one  of  nature's 
few  perfect-looking  creatures — made  all  things  human 
under  the  canvas  look  feeble,  ineffectual.  Such  majesty 
towered  there,  finding  strange  harmony  in  the  tiger's 
sinuous  grace — in  that  incarnation  of  suggestive  and 
actual  beauty. 

The  crowd  wavered,  and  broke,  and  went  on,  but  one 
figure  stood  silently  in  front  of  the  cage  of  the  hippo- 
potamus. This  was  Col.  Henry  C.  Cowles,  of  States- 
ville,  whose  love  for  the  hippopotamus  has  been  previ- 
ously adverted  to  in  this  paper.  Living  nearly  always  in 
Iredell  county.  Colonel  Cowles  has  a  natural  liking  for  a 
mule;  he  fancies  a  good  horse;  he  is  fond  of  a  dog;  and 
has  affection  for  a  good  cow ;  but  since  he  was  a  boy  he 
has  selected  the  hippopotamus  as  an  animal  upon 
which  he  lavishes  a  wealth  of  interest  and  affection. 
"Samantha,"  said  a  countryman  on  one  occasion  to  his 
wife,  "this  is  the  hippopotamus  cow,  and  my!  ain't  she 
plain?"  But  Colonel  Cowles  finds  only  beauty  lines  in 
the  broad,  wet  back  and  sees  tenderness  and  domestic 
traits  in  the  expansive  countenance  of  the  large  animal. 
If  he  had  gone  no  farther  than  the  one  big  cage,  he  would 
have  been  repaid  for  his  visit  to  Charlotte  yesterday. 

[37] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Circus  Day  With  enraptured  face  he  watched  the  keeper  feed  the 
hippopotamus  on  wet  bran,  and  his  hand  went  out  in- 
voluntarily as  if  he  would  wish  to  stroke  the  dripping 
nozzle.  "Above  all  the  animals  that  are,"  said  Colonel 
Cowles,  "give  me  the  hippopotamus  cow — the  noblest 
of  all  the  wild  beasts  in  the  world." 

Every  man  to  his  own  choice;  and  Rob  Reinhardt, 
of  Lincolnton,  and  several  httle  Reinhardts  who  tugged 
at  his  hand,  foregathered  with  the  camels — ^just  stood 
and  gazed  into  the  eyes  of  the  herd  of  camels  and  seri- 
ously nodded  their  approval.  A  man  across  the  way 
yelled  that  the  albino  gentleman  would  now  proceed  to 
throw  his  backbone  out  of  joint,  and  even  as  he  spoke 
the  gentleman  v^^ho  has  no  hands  at  all  began  to  write 
a  spencerian  hand  with  his  two  large  toes;  but  Bob 
Reinhardt  only  leaned  down  on  the  ropes  and  scruti- 
nized more  closely  the  camels.  There  was  more  or  less 
pathos  in  his  expression,  and  a  great  deal  of  dejection 
in  his  bearing,  as  he  turned  away  after  a  few  minutes' 
conversation  with  the  keeper  of  the  animals.  Mr. 
Reinhardt  and  the  little  Reinhardts  had  failed  in  their 
purpose  to  purchase  a  camel  that  they  could  take  back 
to  Lincolnton  and  drive  in  a  buggy,  and  hitch  to  the 
stake  in  front  of  the  post-office  and  thus  breed  envy  into 
a  peaceful  hamlet. 

There  were  lots  and  lots  of  other  animals.  Zebras, 
emus,  trained  sheep,  gnus,  kangaroos,  antelopes,  buffa- 
loes, bears,  monkeys — these  and  others  were  present. 
And  one  giraffe!  Tall,  slender,  graceful  he  stood— one 
of  the  rarest  of  the  wild  creatures.  "You  see,  sir,"  said 
his  keeper,  "they  don't  live  long.    They  get  pneumonia, 

[38I 


CHARLOTTE  AND  HER  NEIGHBORS 

or  some  other  ailment,  on  the  shghtest  provocation,  and  Circus  Day 

they  don't  stand  captivity  well.     Excepting  a  female 

that  is  in  the  North  and  is  about  to  give  birth  to  a  little 

one,  this  is  the  only  giraffe  owned  by  Barnum  &  Bailey. 

Mr.  Bailey  has  a  standing  offer  of  $10,000  for  a  giraffe, 

and  it  doesn't  seem  that  the  order  is  to  be  filled." 

Two  dozen  elephants  stood  in  a  semicircle,  and 
across  the  path  stood  a  mother  elephant  who  munched 
hay  and  gazed  reflectively  upon  a  baby  that  had  re- 
cently become  her  very  own.  The  elephants  are  well 
mannered,  and  they  neither  receive  nor  ask  for  the  edi- 
bles that  are  popularly  supposed  to  be  handed  out  by 
the  small  boys  and  the  intoxicated  patrons.  "There  is 
something  pathetic  to  me  about  an  elephant,"  said  Mr. 
W.  D.  Coxey,  the  genial  press  representative  of  the 
show.  "He  is  a  wise  fellow  and  he  bears  captivity 
stolidly  and  sensibly.  He  is  like  the  Hindoo;  he  does 
the  best  he  kin  do;  and  yet  I  want  to  cry  when  I  see 
him,  the  big,  sturdy  thing,  doing  infantile  stunts  and 
then  walking  out  of  the  arena  with  a  subdued  expres- 
sion in  his  eyes  and  his  trunk  fastened  around  the  tail 
of  the  elephant  in  front  of  him.  Yet  they  get  ugly  some- 
times, and  when  an  elephant  does  get  mean  there  is  but 
one  thing  to  do  with  him — kill  him.  Yes,  we  have  had 
to  kill  four  in  recent  years.  How  ?  Well,  the  method  is 
rather  unique  and  almost  invariable.  We  stake  the  ele- 
phant firmly  to  the  ground,  pass  a  long  chain  around  his 
neck,  fasten  two  stout  elephants  to  each  end  of  the  chain, 
and  they  become  the  executioners  by  a  choking  process." 
*    *    * 

The  free  list  attractions  in  the  centre  of  the  tent  were 
[39] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Circxis  Day  attractive  up  to  the  point  where  unsightliness  caused 
something  akin  to  nausea.  The  programme  states  that 
Grace  Gilbert,  the  bearded  lady,  is  gentle,  delicate,  and 
intensely  feminine  in  all  her  characteristics,  and  yet  at 
the  age  of  twenty-six  years  she  has  a  beard  "  of  an  aver- 
age of  about  ten  inches,"  It  is  also  averred  that  she  has 
refused  many  proposals  of  marriage.  Poor  bearded 
lady!  One  saw  the  well-rounded  figure,  saw  the  slen- 
der woman's  hands,  glanced  up  and  imagined  the 
transports  of  embracing  Esau,  and  turned  with  relief 
to  the  four-hundred-pound  fat  lady  who  is  the  breath- 
ing, peaceful  image  of  Charlie  McCord. 

There  was  the  dear  old  dog-faced  boy.  Only  they 
dignify  him  by  caUing  him  the  lion-faced  boy  now. 
Dear  old  reminder  of  childhood's  days;  furnishing  the 
best  term  to  sneer  at  ill-favored,  unhkable  folk.  The 
man  with  the  hard  head,  the  human  telescope,  Miss 
Leah  May,  the  American  giantess,  the  living  skeleton, 
the  whirHng  Dervish,  the  needle-eater  and  the  fire- 
eater,  the  albino  dislocationist,  the  human  pincushion, 
Eli  Bowen,  the  legless  acrobat,  Charles  Tripp,  the  arm- 
less wonder — aye,  these  and  more  were  all  there.  A 
rare  collection  of  freaks.  A  little  bit  of  a  boy  threw  his 
arm  around  his  father's  neck  and  wept  as  if  his  heart 
would  break.  "Oh,  sonny,"  said  the  father,  "don't 
cry.  That's  only  poor  old  Krao,  the  missing  link." 
But  sonny  couldn't  reason  very  clearly  about  evolution, 
and  every  time  he  and  Krao  exchanged  glances  he 
bawled  the  louder.  One  is  enlightened  to  note  in  the 
programme  that  Krao  is  a  she.  Most  anywhere  she 
would  be  taken  for  a  he,  or  a  plain,  every-day  him. 

[40] 


CHARLOTTE  AND  HER  NEIGHBORS 

"Just  look  at  the  midgets,"  said  Mr.  Coxey.     "To  Circus  Day 
me  they  are  the  most  interesting  people  in  the  show." 

The  biggest  midget  is  a  woman,  shapely,  rather 
pretty.  "And  quite  refined,"  said  Mr.  Coxey.  "Dif- 
ferent? No,  she  is  for  all  the  world  just  like  other 
women — has  the  same  ideas,  the  same  desires."  There 
were  four  other  midgets;  two  comparatively  tallish 
little  fellows,  and  two  tiny  Httle  chaps  and  the  tiniest 
sort  of  a  little  woman.  She  was  dressed  in  evening  cos- 
tume and  had  lots  of  pretty  hair  that  was  gracefully  ar- 
ranged. She  strolled  up  and  down  the  platform  with 
her  hand  on  the  arm  of  the  smaller  of  the  two  littlest 
midgets,  but  her  eyes  kept  turning  to  the  larger  of  the 
two.  "That's  a  sad  case,"  said  Mr.  Coxey.  "She  is 
crazy  about  that  little  fellow.  To  her  he  is  the  biggest, 
boldest,  bravest  man  in  the  world.  She  has  been  in 
love  with  him  for  a  long  time.  When  we  were  in  Buda- 
pest last  year,  they  announced  their  engagement,  and  a 
number  of  us,  including  some  German  newspaper  men, 
gave  them  a  pre-nuptial  banquet.  After  the  toast  of 
the  evening  had  been  made  the  bridegroom-to-be  rose 
to  his  feet,  and,  in  responding,  said  that  he  was  not  so 
sure  about  being  married  after  all.  He  said  he  would 
have  to  think  it  over  for  a  while.  What  a  bombshell  his 
announcement  caused,  and  how  that  little  woman  did 
suffer!  But  since  then  they've  been  getting  friendlier, 
and  I  fancy  the  thing  will  end  in  marriage.  She's  quite 
daffy  about  him,  and  to  her  he  is  tall  and  stately  and 
more  beautiful  and  heroic  than  all  the  princes  of  the 
fairy  tales." 

*    *    * 

[41] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Circus  Day  The  circus  itself!  What  is  there  to  say  about  a  cir- 
cus? As  the  years  pass  they  change  a  bit  and  grow 
larger,  and  yet  the  essentials  must  remain  the  same. 
Pleasure  builded  above  the  sawdust  that  contains  the 
clown,  the  elephant,  the  acrobats,  the  bareback  riders, 
the  long  whirl  of  a  body  from  one  trapeze  to  another, 
the  chariot  races — such  things  are  to  be  the  eternal  fab- 
ric of  a  circus.  Sometimes  there  is  more;  sometimes 
less ;  always  a  circus  gives  better  return  for  money  than 
any  other  form  of  amusement.  And  yesterday  it  was 
more.  Three  pulsing  rings  made  the  eyes  swim  and 
tired  one's  brain.  The  only  risk,  in  pleasure's  name, 
was  in  surfeit.  Four  hundred  women  came  out  and 
gave  the  spectacular  "tribute  to  Balkis,"  a  rhythmic, 
harmonious  spectacle  that  delighted  the  eye  and  pleased 
the  senses.  After  that — after  the  end  oi  sl  gorgeous 
prelude — event  followed  event  in  mad  succession,  and 
the  spectator  was  entertained  in  half  a  dozen  different 
ways  at  once.  There  was  an  inner  cry  to  stop  the 
thing  so  that  each  act  could  be  examined  in  detail. 
The  elephants  were  wonderfully  clever;  the  horse- 
back riding  was  attractive,  if  not  particularly  thrilling; 
the  acrobatic  work  and  the  other  athletic  features,  in- 
cluding the  exhibition  of  Japanese  jugglers;  the  tight- 
rope walking;  the  beautiful  trained  horses  and  dogs, 
the  horse  racing  and  then  the  chariot  racing — all  these 
and  the  dozens  of  other  features  were  very  good  indeed. 
If  one  were  called  upon  to  select  the  cleverest  part  of 
the  show  he  would  at  once  point  to  the  work  of  the  two 
aerialists,  the  Clarkonions,  one  of  v/hom  turns  a  dou- 
ble sommersault  and  then  turns  his  body  completely 

[42] 


CHARLOTTE  AND  HER  NEIGHBORS 

round,  in  mid-air,  before  catching  the  arms  of  the  other  Circus  Day 
performer,  which  hang  down  from  a  high  trapeze.    In 
a  word,  the  big  show  had  everything  that  a  show  ought 
to  have,  and  it  is  the  most  complete  circus  that  has  ever 
visited  the  South. 

"Where  do  our  performers  come  from?"  said  Mr. 
Coxey.  "Why,  most  of  them  are  from  England,  a 
good  many  from  Germany,  and  others  from  France 
and  Bavaria.  The  Americans  are  not  as  good  circus  per- 
formers, not  as  good  riders  or  acrobats,  as  the  Euro- 
peans. The  American  temperament  is  impatient,  and 
the  ordinary  American  hasn't  the  patience  to  spend  a 
lifetime  trying  to  learn  to  do  a  certain  kind  of  work. 
And  so  much  as  that  is  required  of  a  circus  performer. 
It  is  strange  enough  that  most  of  the  midgets  and  the 
other  freak  people  come  from  Bulgaria  or  Bavaria. 
Most  of  our  performers  are  grouped  in  families.  Those 
seven  women  who  are  doing  turns  in  the  far  ring  are 
French  Jewesses — the  mother  and  daughters  and  cous- 
ins. Those  in  the  next  ring  are  a  German  and  his  wife 
and  his  daughter  and  her  husband.  Certain  families 
seem  to  be  producing  circus  performers.  This  pro- 
motes morality ;  and  a  circus  is  not  half  so  immoral  as 
it  is  popularly  supposed  to  be.  The  family  idea  is 
strongly  opposed  to  anything  wrong,  and  I'll  tell  you 
another  thing:  It  is  the  lazy  life  which  contains  no  ex- 
ercise that  leads  oftenest  to  physical  wrong-doing. 
Where  you  find  a  lot  of  people  who  must  keep  sober 
and  are  continually  taking  a  lot  of  the  right  sort  of  ex- 
ercise you  are  not  apt  to  find  vice  or  viciousness." 

There  was  a  start  of  surprise,  and  the  show  was  over. 
[43] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Circus  Day  The  concert  was  a  whit  better  than  the  usual  catch- 
penny aftermath;  and  the  side  show  owns  one  exhibit 
alone  that  is  worth  going  many  miles  to  see.  This  is 
the  giant — the  best  looking  and  the  biggest  giant  that 
any  one  ever  saw.  He  is  7  feet  9  inches  high,  wears  a 
No.  36  shoe,  weighs  400  and  some  odd  pounds,  and  is 
well  proportioned.  But  he  seems  to  be  a  most  unhappy 
giant.  He  creates  the  impression  that  he  is  lonesome, 
and  a  man  who  makes  the  sad  error  of  growing  to  be 
that  big  is  apt  to  be  more  or  less  lonesome  all  his  days. 
He  conversed  with  the  fat  lady  and  the  lady  who  toys 
with  the  reptiles,  but  he  always  kept  that  weary  look 
in  his  sensible  and  sensitive  kind  of  eyes.  One  has  an 
idea  that  the  giant  is  apt  to  die  an  old  bachelor,  and 
probably  he  broods  about  the  matter.  The  other  things 
and  people  in  the  side  show  were  scarcely  worth  while, 
though  it  is  observed  that  humanity  at  large  does  take 
a  morbid  sort  of  pleasure  in  looking  upon  ungainly  or 
ghastly  sights  and  malformations  that  go  to  make  up 
the  exhibits  in  the  conventional  side  show. 
*    *    * 

But  there  is  another  brief  chapter  to  add  to  the 
events  of  yesterday.  This  embodied  the  rain.  And 
such  rain!  The  storm  came  in  a  heavy,  noiseless  down- 
pour shortly  after  the  show  began  and  held  up  at  in- 
tervals during  the  performance.  After  the  show  was 
over,  the  people  who  caught  the  first  cars  to  town  es- 
caped a  wetting,  but  those  who  were  forced  to  linger  al- 
most swam  to  town.  Thousands  of  people,  seeing  the 
congested  condition  of  the  street  cars,  set  out  to  walk  to 
town.  Not  one  man  in  twenty  had  an  umbrella.  The  rain 

[44] 


CHARLOTTE  AND  HER  NEIGHBORS 

fell  insidiously,  just  as  if  to  tempt  pedestrians  to  brave  Circus  Day 
it  for  a  while,  and  then  suddenly  it  was  coming  down  in 
torrents.  In  a  few  minutes,  a  thick,  straggling  line  from 
Latta  Park  to  town  was  wet  to  the  skin,  and  then  the 
march  to  the  city  was  made  recklessly.  In  the  space  of 
a  mile  and  a  half,  probably  four  thousand  women 
strode  in  the  blinding  rain  and  more  than  that  many 
men  were  so  badly  caught  that  they  could  afford  to  dis- 
regard further  hurt  from  the  elements.  No  civilized 
land  ever  before  presented  such  an  untidy  picture. 

With  outer  skirts  tucked  around  their  waists,  and 
with  white  skirts  muddied  their  entire  length  women 
splashed  through  deep  puddles,  buried  their  feet  in  red 
clay,  pushed  wet,  dishevelled  hair  back  from  the  eyes, 
and  finally  began  to  laugh  and  enjoy  the  adventure.  The 
entire  town  seemed  to  be  caught  unawares.  The  wave 
of  recklessness  seemed  everywhere;  a  sympathetic 
something  that  made  all  men  and  women  dare  to  walk 
out  and  get  thoroughly  soaked.  The  stragglers,  com- 
ing to  town,  found  a  bedraggled  population  wandering 
hither  and  thither,  taking  no  thought  to  protection. 

Then  all  Charlotte — and  may  be  the  strangers — un- 
dressed and  toasted  its  feet,  and  put  on  clean  clothes, 
and  declared  that  the  day  had  been  entirely  good  and 
that  the  joyous  crowd  that  was  scattered  abroad  in  the 
local  land  was  even  larger  than  the  audience  that  faced 
Mr.  William  Jennings  Bryan  when  he  first  visited  this 
city.  And  no  one  seemed  to  care  because  the  presence 
of  the  Nebraskan  had  ceased  to  mark  the  high  ebb  of 
population  in  the  Queen  City  of  the  South. 

[45] 


CHAPTER  III 

CHARACTER  SKETCHES 

"The  Bull  Ex-Congressman  Romulus  Z.  Linney,  of  Taylors- 
Brushies"  '^^^^)  better  known  as  the  Bull  of  the  Brushies,  arrived 
in  town  yesterday,  and  will  be  here  for  several  days. 
From  the  time  he  entered  the  lobby  of  the  Buford  Ho- 
tel until  he  retired  last  night,  he  was  always  surrounded 
by  a  crowd;  and  generally  he  was  the  spokesman, 
though  the  attentive  pricking-up  of  his  ears  and  the 
narrow  closing  of  his  eyeUds  indicate  that  as  a  Hstener 
he  is  a  genius — a  man  that  the  world  likes  to  whisper  to. 
Among  all  the  odd  men  who  are  grown  on  the  high- 
land heath  in  western  North  CaroHna,  Mr.  Linney  is 
the  strangest,  the  most  distinctive.  Even  Dickens  never 
knew  his  kind,  or  fashioned  a  type  that  is  near  akin  to 
the  Bull  of  the  Brushies.  He  is  older  now  than  he  used 
to  be,  but  his  rotund  figure  is  as  active  as  of  yore;  the 
eyes  just  as  em^otional;  the  voice  as  quick  and  strong, 
and  ready  as  ever  to  speak  language  hke  that  of  no  other 
man  in  the  universe. 

Most  men  who  read  literature  hold  it  in  reserve  as 
mere  ornate  punctuation  or  emphasis  for  every-day 
speech,  but  Mr.  Linney  breathes  composite  rhetoric  at 

[46] 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES 

breakfast.  The  cadence  of  "Locksley  Hall,"  the"TheBuU 
quaintness  and  subtle  charm  of  Coke,  the  common-  Brushies" 
sense  phraseology  of  John  Stuart  Mill,  the  rareness  of 
Shakespeare — all  these  blend  in  single  sentences  when 
words  fall  from  the  lips  of  this  strange  man  of  genius. 
In  congressional  halls  he  has  caused  laughter  by  the 
use  of  colloquialisms  that  are  his  birthright;  while  in 
the  far-back  rural  districts  he  has  combined,  in  furious 
speech,  Spencer,  the  Old  Testament,  Bill  Nye,  Black- 
stone  and  the  Constitution,  and  aimed  them  with  teUing 
force  at  an  audience  that  was  moved  to  weep  blind 
tears. 

And  he  is  notable  everywhere  he  goes.  You  will 
mark  him  on  the  streets  if  you  see  him.  People  in 
Washington  and  New  York  used  to  turn  and  gaze  upon 
him;  they  knew  not  why.  A  costly  frock  coat,  the 
product  of  an  expensive  tailor,  is  on  his  back,  and  does 
not  conceal  fancy  corduroy  trousers  that  are  both 
serviceable  and  splotched. 

Ever  since  he  ceased  to  be  a  Democrat,  Mr.  Linney 
has  been  a  Republican.  That's  a  way  he  has  of  doing 
things.  He  is  a  positive  character,  and  is  pretty  apt  to 
be  one  thing  or  another.  Just  now  he  is  preparing  to 
obtain  the  Republican  congressional  nomination  in  the 
eighth  district,  and  he  is  quietly  trying  to  further  his 
chances  by  foregathering  with  the  hordes  of  Republi- 
cans who  are  here  in  attendance  upon  the  District 
Court.  Mr.  Linney  explained  the  matter  in  another 
way  in  answer  to  a  question  of  the  reporter. 

"Why  do  I  come  here,  sir?"  he  replied.     "I  come 
here,  sir,  to  attend  a  meeting  of  the  patriots ;  and  only 
[47] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

"The  Bull  Republicans  are  patriots.  I  come  here,  sir,  to  be  pres- 
Brushies  "  ^^^  ^^  ^  ^^^^  feast ;  to  be  an  humble  factor  in  a  reunion 
that  stirs  the  soul  and  warms  the  heart."  He  waved 
his  hand  benignly  over  a  circle  that  included  Judge 
Boyd,  Gus  Price,  Mr.  S.  Wittkowsky,  Col.  H.  C.  Eccles 
and  a  few  others. 

"  Do  I  expect  to  get  the  nomination  in  the  eighth  dis- 
trict? I  do.  I  expect  to  thunder  out  the  truth  to  the 
good  people  of  that  district;  and  I  shall  expect  to  de- 
feat for  the  nomination  my  friend,  Spencer  Blackburn. 

"Yes,  if  I  am  nominated  I  shall  hope  to  run  against 
Mr.  Theo.  F.  Kluttz.  Will  that  give  me  pleasure,  sir? 
Pleasure  ?  Why,  I  will  be  honored  in  meeting  such  an 
eloquent,  courteous  gentleman. 

"But  disturb  me  not  with  these  minor  matters  and 
let  me  reflect  in  peace  upon  the  beneficence  of  that 
God-fearing  citizen,  Marcus  Hanna.  Sir,  I  look  upon 
him  not  so  much  as  an  ordinary  man,  but  I  love  to 
think  on  the  qualities  of  his  great  soul.  Here  hero-wor- 
ship has  no  taint  of  sacrilege.  And  I  may  add  that  my 
tribute  is  incomplete  without  grouping  alongside  Mr. 
Hanna  two  other  Christian  gentlemen,  Grosvenor,  of 
Ohio,  and  President  Theodore  Roosevelt.  Each  chal- 
lenges hero-worship — receives  it.  Yes,  I  think  Roose- 
velt will  be  the  next  President." 

"What  do  you  think  about  Judge  Boyd's  ticket: 
Roosevelt  for  President  and  Judge  W.  S.  O'B.  Robin- 
son for  Vice-President?" 

"Judge  Robinson  is  a  brilliant  man  and  is  deter- 
mined to  make  a  reputation  for  himself,"  said  Mr.  Lin- 
ney,  who  is  a  diplomat. 

[48] 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES 

The  sublime  mood  flickered  for  a  moment  on  the  mo- 
bile face,  and  comical  curves  worked  at  the  corners  of 
his  mouth.  "Happy?"  he  said.  "Yes,  I  am  happy. 
You  should  have  been  with  me,  sir,  recently.  I  have 
been  in  the  Second  Paradise,  out  yonder  in  Watauga 
county,  on  the  top  of  Ritch  Mountain,  six  thousand  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  sea."  Eloquence  flashed  once 
again  in  the  merry,  passionate  eyes,  and  then  died,  and 
the  Bull  of  the  Brushies  was  trailing  on  the  level. 

"I  have  come  down  here  to  meet  with  the  clansmen," 
he  said  with  a  grin,  "and  it  reminds  me  of  the  rubbing 
of  dead  shad  together." 

Prof.  Shepherd  Monroe  Dugger  came  to  the  city  not  The 
with  the  loud  heralding  that  should  have  announced  Dufger 
his  approach,  and  when  he  would  have  lectured  in  the 
court-house  last  evening  he  found  himself  facing  only 
a  few  persons,  and  therefore  he  determined  to  postpone 
his  discourse  until  Thursday  night,  when  he  will  speak 
in  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 

Professor  Dugger  is  very  anxious  to  speak  before  a 
representative  Charlotte  audience,  and  it  is  to  be  hoped 
that  he  will  be  greeted  with  a  large  audience  when  he 
rises  up  to  speak  on  "How  to  Make  Sober  Men  and 
Happy  Women."  The  nominal  charge  of  fifteen  and 
twenty- five  cents  should  not  be  a  strong  enough  bar- 
rier to  keep  any  one  from  tasting  the  eloquence  of  the 
famous  author  of  "The  Balsam  Groves  of  the  Grand- 
father." 

Professor  Dugger  is  modestly  proud  of  his  lecture  and 
the  effect  that  it  has  had  upon  residents  of  Gastonia  and 
4  [49] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  upon  people  in  other  places  where  he  has  been  recently. 
Dueger  ^^  ^^^  permitted  to  speak  in  churches,  and  he  said  he 
gave  offense  to  no  one,  and  that  people  invited  him 
around  to  dinner  and  expressed  their  appreciation  of 
his  efforts.  "I  am  not  so  green  at  the  business  as  I  once 
was,"  he  said.  "I  have  learned  many  things  since  the 
time  I  used  to  lecture  up  there  in  the  mountains.  I  can 
feel  how  my  audience  is  feeling,  and  if  I  am  about  to  go 
too  far  I  can  see  the  danger  in  the  eyes  of  the  first 
young  woman  whose  eyes  I  happen  to  see." 

Prof.  Dugger  explained  that  the  theme  of  his  lecture 
was  so  narrowed  that  it  did  not  deal  with  a  great  va- 
riety of  subjects.  Intemperance  in  all  its  branches,  the 
usefulness  of  honest  work,  the  right  sort  of  domestic 
Hfe,  love,  courtship,  marriage,  and  the  humior  that  is 
injected  into  side-Hne  jokes — these  and  just  a  few  other 
topics  are  reckoned  with  in  his  lecture.  "And  I  am  not 
so  crude  a  stick  of  material  as  formerly,"  asseverates 
Professor  Dugger.  Which  means  that  his  lecture  is  a 
refined  thing  that  will  tickle  a  sensitive  palate  without 
causing  the  least  bit  of  nausea. 

His  friends  here  who  have  seen  Shepherd  Monroe 
Dugger  on  his  native  heath,  standing  hard  by  his  be- 
loved Grandfather  Mountain  and  emitting  bold,  won- 
derful, weird  and  volcanic  words,  entertain  the  fear 
that,  may  be,  the  fierce,  primitive  genius  has  become 
too  softened  by  the  search  for  refining  influence.  Has 
Dugger  become  tame?  That  is  the  question.  Is  this 
the  same  Dugger  who  said  roughly,  "  I  don't  want  to  talk 
to  any  audience  whose  faces  look  like  a  carload  of 
bruised  watermelons"?     That's  the  Dugger  that  the 

[50] 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES 

people  wish  to  hear;  that's  the  Dugger  who  won  fame  The 
that  spread  to  the  furthermost  confines  of  the  nation.  ^ueg"r 
Let  him  speak  further,  if  he  pleases,  of  the  boil  on  the 
old  lady's  back;  let  him  find  and  hurl  to  the  startled 
winds  more  and  yet  more  of  his  perorations  which  over- 
whelm one  with  terrific  unfathomableness.  His  friends 
here  venture  to  express  the  hope  that  the  original  and 
only  Duggerism  will  manifest  itself  here  Thursday 
night. 

Let  the  professor  spout  the  great  clarion  lingo  that 
came  to  him  and  possessed  his  soul  as  he  and  the  Grand- 
father Mountain  slept  side  by  side.  Let  him  do  this, 
and  the  Charlotte  audience,  which  is  ever  heroic  in  pa- 
tience and  courage  despite  unfair  handling,  will  en- 
deavor to  rise  to  the  point  of  understanding  and,  even 
if  appalled,  will  yet  be  grateful  for  having  heard  una- 
dulterated, unlassoed  and  untamable  Duggerism. 

There  must  be  no  restraint  for  Prof.  Shepherd  Mon- 
roe Dugger,  and  this  counsel  comes  at  the  behest  of  his 
friends  who  have  seen  him  moving  and  speaking  as  an 
untrammelled  scion  of  the  Blue  Ridge.  He  now  wears 
a  long  frock  coat  and  shakes  hands  rather  too  high  in 
the  air.  He  refused  yesterday  to  say  "ain't,"  and  picks 
his  words  with  a  preciseness  that  caused  nervousness. 
He  claims  to  be  an  apostle  to  intellectual  reformation, 
and  the  claim  causes  regret.  The  great  Dugger  must 
not  learn  away  from  his  early  creed  and  language.  Let 
him  say,  "My  darHn'  Mihilda,  Mahulday,  Mahishla  ' 
Jane,  if  you'll  allow  me  to  implant  upon  your  cavern- 
ous mouth  some  faint  evidence  of  my  inconsiderable 
abiHty  as  an  osculatory  artist,  I'll  cure  your  toothache." 

[51] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

_  The  Let  him  say  that  if  he  wants  to.  Let  him  gurgle  as 
DiSeer  wildly  as  the  raciest  mountain  stream;  let  him  roar 
with  the  untutored  majesty  of  Linville  Falls.  Break 
forth,  Dugger — be  the  old  Dugger!  Howl,  sing,  lash 
yourself  in  the  dear  old  way  and  make  everybody  sit  up. 
Fifteen  cents  "per"  entitles  the  local  world  to  no  big 
demand ;  but,  in  the  name  of  BuUscrape  and  by  the  sa- 
cred beard  of  the  Grandfather,  it  is  your  duty  to  bust 
loose  and  warble  the  same  song  that  used  to  shake  and 
overturn  intellects  in  the  high  hills. 
*    *    * 

With  his  hair  disordered,  his  cravat  askew,  and  his 
eye — both  eyes — in  fine  frenzy  rolling,  Prof.  Shepherd 
Monroe  Dugger,  lecturer,  and  author  of  "The  Balsam 
Groves  of  the  Grandfather  Mountain,"  strolled  into 
The  Observer  office  yesterday  and,  striking  himself  on 
the  chest,  said  loudly: 

"The  only  and  original  Dugger,  the  bard  of  Banner 
Elk,  still  lives ! 

"Read  this,"  said  the  only  authorized  spokesman  for 
the  Grandfather  Mountain — "read  this  and  know  that 
Duggerism  still  survives."    Here  was  the  offering: 

"Yesterday's  Observer  says:  'In  the  name  of  Bull- 
scrape  and  by  the  sacred  beard  of  the  Grandfather  it  is 
your  duty  to  bust  loose  and  warble  the  same  song  that 
used  to  shake  and  overturn  intellects  in  the  high  hills.' 

"Let  me  answer  my  friends  in  Charlotte  that  I  still 
possess  the  lingo  that  sighs  in  the  balsams  of  the  Grand- 
father. The  Linville  Falls  are  pouring  as  vividly  in  my 
cranium  as  when  I  lifted  the  speckled  beauties  flaunt- 
ing in  their  white  spray.    The  rhododendrons  continue 

[52] 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES 

to  bloom  in  the  horizon  of  the  forests  as  the  borealis  of 
the  floral  kingdom.  Every  crystal  fountain  is  a  silvery 
tongue  of  the  mountain  bubbling  poems  from  its  orifice; 
pouring  torrents,  dallying  through  twisted  gyves,  steal 
the  hues  of  the  rainbow  and  paint  them  on  the  sides  of 
their  fishes,  and  the  blood  from  angels'  wounds,  still 
falling  from  the  battle  in  heaven,  leaves  its  formula 
and  sad  muse  upon  the  autumnal  leaves." 

As  these  words  were  read  the  fine  raiment  of  the  poet 
of  Banner  Elk  seemed  no  longer  to  conceal  the  strange 
personality  of  that  Dugger  who,  as  foreman  for  all  the 
road-working  forces  in  Watauga  county,  had  once 
proudly  termed  himself  "The  Colossus  of  Roads." 
With  the  murmur  of  such  eloquence  there  was  wafted 
to  aroused  senses  a  long,  sweet  breath  from  the  high 
hills,  the  cry  of  the  owl  under  the  moon,  the  far  whisper 
of  gurgling  streams,  the  scent  of  wet  green  things. 

The  old  Dugger,  the  real  Dugger,  is  alive  and  not 
dead. 

Once  more  the  theatrical  season  opens  in  this  city,  Nat  Gray 
and  the  voice  of  Col.  Nathaniel  Gray  is  silent.  For 
many  years  he  was  the  engineer  of  the  gilded,  tinselled 
art — the  manager  of  the  opera  house  that  saw  the  great 
Booth  and  mocked  cobwebs  and  discomfort  by  the  pa- 
rade of  lesser  lights.  All  of  talent  that  came  he  brought 
and  revelled  in.  As  the  proud  patron  of  it  all,  he 
laughed  for  years  with  Pierrot,  sighed  with  Cinderella, 
languished  with  Romeo,  and  wept  with  Brutus.  So 
much  did  his  office  enter  into  his  daily  life  that  he  said 
"Gadzooks"  in  the  little  barber  shop  that  he  owns  on 
[53] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Nat  Gray  West  Trade  street,  and  he  tried  to  teach  his  little  dog 
to  emulate  the  proud  manner  of  the  distinguished  lion 
that  brought  fame  to  the  opera  house  season  before 
last.  But  the  place  beautiful  is  even  now  almost  for- 
gotten. That  brilliant  curtain  with  the  sixteenth-cen- 
tury figures,  the  Arabian  horses,  and  the  nineteenth- 
century  hotel  in  the  left-hand  corner — ^where  is  that 
curtain?  Where  the  spluttering  purple  lights  and 
pink  lights — where  the  green  garden  scene  that  has 
contained  King  John,  Rupert  of  Hentzau,  Petronius, 
Hamlet,  Richelieu  and  Wild  Bill?  Where  the  sacred 
seats  that  witnessed  so  long  the  tales  of  greatness  and 
heroism?  Gone!  "The  wind  has  blown  them  away." 
Swept  is  the  histrionic  dust.  An  eerie  sound  is  there. 
Ghosts  may  rehearse  by  ghostly  hmelight,  and  the 
shade  of  the  princess  who  wore  the  imitation  silk  may 
curtsey  to  the  king  who  wore  gaiter  shoes,  that  were 
marked  down  to  $1.98;  a  Roman  legion  can  appear  in 
misty  array,  but  the  spirit  of  the  old  house,  that  so 
gloated  over  its  changing  throng,  is  dead  in  silence. 
The  manager  is  out  of  business.  Retired!  He  raises 
chickens  in  Utopia — which  is  Dilworth.  Raises  chick- 
ens and  beets — and  things.  And  so  finds  happiness 
for  a  later  life.  Out  into  the  darkness  he  looks  peace- 
fully, hopefully.  Close  to  nature  he  is;  the  keen, 
sweet  breath  of  the  forest  is  wafted  to  him;  he  hears 
the  last  tuneful  carol  of  the  lark  at  eventide ;  he  looks 
deep  into  the  eyes  of  the  youthful  chickens,  and  finds 
rest,  surcease  of  sorrow.  It  is  given  to  him,  even  as  it  is 
given  to  Col.  Jeems  Howie,  to  know  the  blessings  of  the 
quieter  living;  to  know  that  in  ruraldom  poverty  is  as 

[541 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES 

precious  as  affluence.  Here,  he  knows,  all  men  must 
live  alike.  And  he  has  found,  as  Colonel  Howie  found, 
that — 

"Them  that  has  no  hired  hands  blows  the  dinner 
horn  just  the  same  as  them  that  has." 

Kid  Sloan  died  yesterday  afternoon  at  4 :30  o'clock  at  Kid  Sloan 
St.  Peter's  Hospital.  The  cause  of  his  death  was  alco- 
holism. It  would  be  no  kindness  to  Kid  to  try  to  let  him 
down  light  by  saying  that  he  died  from  some  other 
sickness.  As  he  had  anticipated,  he  passed  out  the 
liquor  way,  and  if  he  had  any  voice  in  the  matter  now 
he  would  sneer  at  an  effort  to  disguise  the  truth. 

This  history  of  Kid  Sloan — or  David  Wilson  Sloan — 
was  published  in  The  Observer  a  few  days  ago.  He  was 
a  waif  who  was  hurled  around  the  world  laughingly  but 
violently.  He  knew  nothing  but  a  print  shop  and  hu- 
manity, and  he  knew  both  well.  He  was  thirty- eight 
years  of  age — old  in  experience,  young  at  heart,  and 
one  of  the  swiftest  compositors  in  the  United  States. 

Kid  was  born  in  Stanly  county,  but  he  had  lived  in 
almost  every  part  of  America,  and  he  knew  the  manners 
and  sayings  of  many  peoples.  In  a  Bohemian  sense  he 
was  a  thorough  man  of  the  world  and  his  fund  of  an- 
ecdote was  enormous.  He  absorbed  color  at  every 
point  he  touched  and  put  it  to  no  use  except  to  amuse 
his  friends.  He  had  lost  the  faculty  of  being  surprised 
at  anything  in  the  world,  but  his  sense  of  humor  kept 
him  bhthe  and  fresh  until  his  being  was  finally  engulfed 
in  rum.  After  his  death  it  is  remembered  that  he  was 
the  quaintest  and  the  most  interesting  personage  in  the 
[55] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Kid  Sloan  town.  He  accomplished  nothing  that  was  worth  while, 
but  he  was  utterly  fascinating. 

Kid  was  a  morphine  fiend,  an  opium  fiend,  and  a 
drunkard,  but  he  never  did  a  mean  or  a  malicious  thing 
in  his  life.  He  was  the  sort  of  a  m.an  who  would  pick 
up  a  strange,  friendless  dog  and  carry  it  home  and  give 
it  half  of  his  last  crust.  He  never  had  much  to  give,  but 
he  was  always  perfectly  willing  to  give  all  that  he  had. 
When  his  body  writhed  bitterly  with  the  torture  of  self- 
punishment,  he  yet  radiated  laughter.  He  was  ever 
the  chiefest  figure  in  every  group  that  opened  to  receive 
him,  and,  no  matter  what  hell  he  placed  upon  his  own 
soul,  he  spent  the  best  part  of  his  thirty-eight  years  in 
giving  mirth  that  was  sweet  and  wholesome  by  essence 
and  strength.  No  man  who  ever  met  Kid  Sloan  can  for- 
get him — can  forget  that  tiny,  warped  form  or  the  droll, 
incisive  speech  that  fell  from  the  thin,  seamed  lips. 
Kid  might  have  been  an  eastern  philosopher  trans- 
planted. He  was  out  of  place  here — a  weird  little  per- 
sonality that  understood  everything  about  and  was 
never  understood;  a  pitiful  Httle  chap  who  laughed 
and  made  others  laugh,  harmed  no  one  but  himself,  a.nd 
died  without  ever  having  grieved  or  lost  a  friend. 

Kid  would  have  understood  this  obituary,  for  he 
liked  plain  speech  and  hated  "slopping  over."  He 
never  lied  about  anything  and  he  shall  not  be  lied  about. 

The  immediate  particulars  relating  to  his  death  are 
briefly  told.  He  used  morphine  and  cocaine  for  many 
years,  and  there  was  hardly  a  part  of  his  body  that  had 
not  been  pricked  by  the  hypodermic  needle.  He  was 
one  of  the  few  men  vs^ho  ever  managed  to  quit  the  king 

[56] 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES 

drug.  After  he  shook  off  the  drug  habit  he  alternately 
worked  and  drank  whiskey.  Two  weeks  ago  he  in- 
dulged in  a  colossal  spree  and  topped  it  with  overmuch 
laudanum.  Before  he  had  time  to  recover  himself  or  put 
up  another  of  his  brilliant,  laughing  fights,  his  heart 
was  as  good  as  a  dead  one  and  the  doctors  who  looked 
at  him  shook  their  heads. 

To  quote  Kid's  own  use  of  the  vernacular,  he  had 
"pied  his  form."  In  describing  the  unpleasant  duties 
incident  to  the  work  of  a  sheriff  in  a  certain  wild  section 
of  Utah,  Kid  once  said  that  the  sheriff's  office  was  "on 
the  hook."  And  the  blurred  story  that  told  Kid's  Hfe 
has  been  Hfted  from  the  hook  by  the  Master  Foreman. 

Who  shall  say  that  mercy  will  not  follow  the  reading  ? 

A  dead  clown !  The  words  sound  odd,  don't  they  ?  A  Dead 
They  do  not  pretend  to  give  a  sure-enough  picture.  "^'^ 
They  are,  in  fact,  used  for  an  opposite  purpose.  Can 
you  imagine  a  clown's  dying  ?  Hardly.  All  other  men 
are  credited  with  human  feelings,  with  power  to  love 
and  hate,  but  one  cannot  imagine  that  even  death  could 
bring  dignity  to  a  clown.  For  Pierrot  must  be  none 
other  than  Pierrot,  and  can  one  be  quite  serious  when 
thinking  of  the  final,  agonized  twitches  of  that  pitiful, 
painted  face?  'Twas  ever  so,  and  it  is  recorded  that 
men  of  long  ago  have  laughed  naturally  when  court 
jesters  have  died  of  broken  hearts.  There  be  many 
men  who  would  gravely  assist  their  Maker  in  taking 
care  of  the  multitudes  of  swagger,  pretentious  fools 
who  bustle  on  every  side,  and  yet  would  jeer  at  the  trag- 
edy that  befell  him  who,  willingly,  had  worn  the  point- 
[57] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

A  Dead  ed  cap  and  played  above  the  sawdust,  A  clown  dead — 
°^°  a  clown  suffer  ?  You  see  the  picture  as  it  must  be,  and 
it  is  funnier  so.  You  have  already  seen  him  weep,  and 
'twas  his  most  comical  trick.  The  face  was  fashioned 
only  for  merriment,  and  death's  sweat  trickling  down 
his  painted  lineament  would  have  merely  'roused  hu- 
mor to  a  shriek  of  appreciation.  No,  the  mind  refuses 
to  permit  Pierrot  to  die  or  be  unmirthful.  There  are 
such  and  such  clowns,  but  a  clown  in  a  coffin?  The 
sweet,  sweet  jest!  Even  Old  Scrooge  came  at  length  to 
laugh  and  the  world  approved.  Other  men  have 
changed  from  grave  to  gay,  from  laughter  to  tears,  and 
this  demeanor  is  seemly,  but  to  one  poor  figure  the  end 
of  lifelong  frivolity  is  a  shroud  of  great,  baggy  clothes, 
with  fun-paint  to  distort  a  ghastly  pallor.  So  the  world 
thinks;  clinging  to  an  old  world's  idea. 
*    *    * 

The  vision  changes,  and  the  humor,  for  all  its  cer- 
tainty, is  not  free  from  pathos.  Looking  back  on  the 
centuries  one  sees  the  crumbled  castles,  the  cobwebs 
above  decayed  biers  of  emperors,  the  profound,  eternal 
hush  above  splendor — sees  these  with  awe,  and  then  re- 
members, in  faint  sadness,  that  even  the  jesters  have 
died.  The  stately  halls  that  rise  in  imagination  can  do 
more  than  give  back  tomb-like  echo.  The  crown  is  but 
dust ;  and  in  the  far  mouldy  corner  are  Pierrot's  rotted 
clothes  and  bells  lying  in  a  dishevelled  heap.  .  .  .  See- 
ing a  life  that  has  been  lived,  one  is  stirred  yet  again 
by  pleasure  that  was;  mourns,  if  but  slightly,  over  the 
sorrow  that  came;  and  then  recollects,  with  a  sigh, 
that  death  has  also  crept  under  the  old  and  smaller  can- 

[58] 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES 

vas,  and  in  claiming  that  dear  old  painted  figure  has  A  Dead 
really  stifled  the  Uttle  bright-eyed  boy  who  sat  there  ^^'^'^^ 
with  his  heart  attuned  to  ecstacy  and  whose  eyes  found 
only  beauty  and  peace  in  the  world.    Wandering  among 
the  things  that  are  dead,  man  feels  regret  at  every  stride 
— here  for  mistakes;    there  for  pleasures  that  have 
passed;  and  yet  mirth  must  arise  at  the  clown's  sepul- 
chre.    Mirth?     Aye,  mirth  always;    tears  sometimes. 
So.  .  .  .  Pierrot  is  dead  and  must  die — he  and  the 
little  child  and  the  perfect  sunshine. 
*    *    * 

The  train  of  thought  was  suggested  by  the  fate  of 
Leno  Wills,  the  veteran  clown,  who  is  now  in  the 
county  jail  serving  a  thirty-days'  term  for  drunkenness. 
He  was  an  old-fashioned  clown,  and  one  of  the  best,  it 
is  said.  He  was  a  star  in  the  ancient  one-ring  circus, 
and  probably  thousands  of  men  and  women  remember 
the  vast  pleasure  he  brought  to  their  childhood.  They 
would  hardly  recognize  Leno  now — such  a  wreck  is  he. 
He  is  never  far  from  the  gutter — when  he  isn't  behind 
prison  bars.  Lectures,  kindness,  moral  suasion  have 
no  effect.  Out  of  prison  in  the  morning,  he  is  purple- 
faced  at  night.  The  mocking  tribute  to  his  former  call- 
ing is  paid  by  small  boys  who  jeer  at  him  when  he  is  in 
his  cups,  and  call  him  by  that  absurd  soubriquet,  "Dol- 
ly-My-Leg's-Broke."  The  street  scene  is  familiar:  the 
children  crying  derisively;  the  old  clown  goaded  and 
weeping  under  the  taunts.  Homeless,  friendless,  cheer- 
less, a  confirmed  dipsomaniac — so  the  poor  old  jester 
nears  the  end.  As  he  gathers  his  tatters  about  him 
and  stands  close  to  the  new-made  grave,  he  still  must 
[59] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

hear  the  laugh.     Only  a    clown    is    passing.     What 
matter  ? 

Flashes  He  came  into  the  restaurant  again  the  other  night. 
°Mire  ^^  S^^^  more  wretched  every  day.  He  had  a  good  col- 
legiate education — was  a  first-honor  man,  and  other 
men  pointed  to  him  and  said:  "He  will  do  big  things." 
He  made  one  short,  brilHant  spurt  in  the  world  and 
then  fell  under  the  rule  of  whiskey.  That  was  many 
years  ago.  He  never  rallied,  and  yet  he  has  not  gone  to 
the  dogs  as  other  men  go.  His  mind  still  fights  against 
the  grossness  of  his  body,  and  the  bloodshot  eyes  and 
the  inflamed  face  are  still  illumined  by  an  expression  of 
acute  inteUigence.  When  he  is  lowest  in  debauchery, 
when  his  throbbing  head  falls  weakly  forward,  his  lips 
yet  utter  high  speech,  gems  of  thought  from  the  writers 
of  the  classic  Addisonian  school.  He  is  a  creature  of 
the  gutter,  but  his  thoughts  are  not  there.  His  intellect 
screams  under  horrid  punishment  and  sparkles  brightly 
above  the  foulness  of  its  home.  Liquor  never  brings 
him  lethe.  The  writer  has  seen  him  drunk  many  times, 
but  he  was  never  happily  drunk.  Unless  some  miracle 
be  performed,  he  will  die  a  drunkard.  His  thirst  is  mad- 
dening, awful — a  frightful  thing  even  to  witness.  His 
tongue  rolls  out  over  parched  lips ;  there  is  a  gulp  in  the 
throat,  a  restless,  prowling  movement  of  the  body,  a 
hunting,  insatiate  devil  that  glows  out  of  the  wild 
eyes.  But  the  whiskey  turns  on  him  and  makes  him  a 
self-mocker,  and  his  brain  tortures  in  its  clamor  to  be 
allowed  to  act  unhampered.  His  thoughts  are  ever  on 
the  greater  accompHshments — ever  in  the  intellectual 

[60] 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES 

realm — for  he  knows  with  an  aching,  weird  bitterness 
that  he  was  rightly  destined  to  deeds  of  fineness.  But 
he  is  at  the  mercy  of  the  curse,  and  with  the  last  tender 
quotation  from  one  of  the  world's  masters  trembling  on 
his  lips,  he  will  die  as  a  dog  dies. 

A  good  many  people  were  interested  in  the  little  Gabriel  the 
midget,  Gabriel,  who  did  stunts  in  "A  Son  of  Rest,"  ^^^^^^ 
the  production  that  Mr.  Nat  Wills  presented  at  the  Acad- 
emy a  few  nights  ago.  The  little  chap  made  everybody 
laugh,  and  seemed  very  happy  while  on  the  stage,  but, 
when  viewed  closely,  it  was  noticed  that  there  are  deep 
lines  on  his  face  and  the  sorrow  of  all  the  ages  in  his 
eyes.  He  is  twenty-five  years  old,  and  is  no  larger  than 
a  six-year-old  boy ;  and  yet  he  has  a  man's  ideas  and  a 
man's  intelligence.  The  sight  of  a  midget  makes  one 
shudder.  To  feel  grown  up  and  to  have  a  man's  heart 
and  wishes,  and  then  to  speak  in  a  thin,  piping  voice  and 
strut  around  in  No.  i  shoes — ah,  it  must  be  awful !  No 
wonder  the  poor  little  chap  looked  sad;  and  one  won- 
ders how  the  deuce  he  manages  to  live  at  all.  He  can't 
do  anything  to  amuse  himself.  At  the  hotel  the  women 
in  the  company  teased  and  played  with  him,  and  his  eyes 
looked  both  fierce  and  sorrowful.  May  be  he  is  like 
other  men :  may  be  he  dreams  of  holding  a  soft,  delicate 
head  close  against  his  throat;  and  here  the  big,  frowsy 
blonde  mocks  him  by  patting  his  head.  Little  Harold 
Hooper  came  up  and  looked  longingly  at  the  midget, 
with  an  interrogation  point  in  his  eyes.  He  wanted  to 
invite  Gabriel  to  come  out  and  play  with  him,  and  the 
expression  in  Gabriel's  eyes  showed  that  if  Harold 
[6i] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

made  that  amiable  request  he  would  do  his  best  to  slay 
the  first-born  of  the  proprietor  of  the  Central  Hotel. 
Really,  a  midget  must  be  a  keen  disappointment  to 
himself.  Being  a  giant  is  bad  enough,  because  as  one 
potters  around  he  comes  across  mighty  few  giantesses 
who  move  more  gracefully  than  cows;  but  being  a 
midget !  To  have  people  pity  you  and  look  at  you  as  if 
you  were  a  new  kind  of  fine,  red  bug — that's  the  destiny 
of  a  midget.  Surely  the  Lord  wouldn't  hold  a  little 
fellow  like  that  responsible  for  anything  he  might  do. 
If  you  were  a  midget,  wouldn't  you  feel  like  getting  a 
large  pistol  and  tottering  along  and  shooting  somebody 
just  as  a  mild  way  of  expressing  the  terrible  bitterness 
that  was  in  your  soul ! 

Wine  and  The  writer  used  to  know  a  man  who  spent  most  of  his 
life  sitting  on  a  dry-goods  box  and  whittHng  sticks.  But 
about  once  every  three  months  he  would  drink  an  over- 
plus of  "corn  hcker"  and  quote  beautiful,  tender  things 
like  Browning's  "Last  Ride."    Imagine  it,  will  you? 

"  I  and  my  mistress,  side  by  side, 
Shall  be  together,  breathe  and  ride, 
And,  so,  one  day  more  am  I  deified" — 

And  then  another  pull  at  the  neck  of  the  bottle  that 
contained  the  vile,  evil-smelling  stuff.  Yet  the  sprees 
were  the  only  thing  that  made  the  man  interesting.  In 
sober  moments  he  yawned  before  dinner  and  discussed 
the  stuff  he  Hked  to  eat ;  but  with  a  pint  of  corn  whiskey 
his  voice  wore  the  surging  cadence  of  an  impassioned 
orator,  and  with  a  quart  he  fairly  wept  over  his  own  elo- 
quence and  his  exquisite  thoughts.    He  became  quite 

[62] 


Wit 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES 

an  object  of  reproach  in  a  church-going  place,  yet  to 
this  day  his  townspeople  bristle  with  pleasure  when  he 
starts  on  his  periodical  jaunt  to  the  distillery.  This 
man  and  the  foreman  are  somewhat  alike,  though  the 
foreman  would  not  have  swallowed  the  poetry  even 
with  the  corn  liquor  as  a  chaser.  Which  is  a  strong  way 
of  explaining  the  foreman's  aversion  to  the  pretty  gift  of 
song. 

You  are  always  at  liberty  to  spot  an  ass  when  you  A  Dandy 
travel  because  you  never  know  how  confidently  the 
other  man  is  listening  for  your  own  bray.  This  asser- 
tion is  by  the  way.  The  writer  is  thinking  of  a  type 
that  he  met  a  few  days  ago.  It  was  in  a  railroad  wait- 
ing room.  A  young  man  came  in  smelling  loud  of  per- 
fumery. He  wore  new  clothes,  new  shoes,  and  a  new 
hat  that  rested  on  the  back  of  his  head  and  allowed  a 
display  of  hair  that  was  parted  in  the  middle  and  fell 
low  on  his  forehead.  His  collar  was  too  high  and  his 
tie  was  of  purplish  hue.  He  was  most  affable.  He 
opened  a  new  vahse  which  contained,  among  other 
things,  a  lot  of  cigarettes,  two  bottles  of  whiskey,  and  a 
picture  with  a  glass  frame.  He  asked  everybody  to 
drink.  Nobody  drank.  He  pulled  out  the  picture  and 
said,  "That,  gentlemen,  is  the  girl  I  am  going  to  marry." 
The  fattest  drummer  sighed  and  looked  bored.  No- 
body said  anything.  The  pasteboard  in  the  picture- 
frame  was  decorated  with  gaudy  little  red  flowers  and 
birds.  A  brooch  at  the  neck  of  the  girl  in  the  picture 
shone  brilliantly  under  goldish  paint.  "  That's  the  finest 
girl  in  the  land,"  said  the  youth,  as  he  carefully  laid  the 
[63I 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

photo  above  the  bottles  of  corn  liquor.  Along  with 
others  in  the  waiting  room  he  got  on  the  train.  He  was 
restless  and  communicative — roamed  all  over  the  train 
and  puffed  clumsily  at  many  cigarettes.  Finally,  at  a 
small  station,  he  picked  up  his  valise  and  got  off.  The 
girl  in  that  picture  was  there  to  meet  him,  and  as  she 
shook  hands  with  him  he  blew  cigarette  smoke  in  her 
face.  He  looked  as  if  he  thought  she  ought  to  be  awful 
proud  of  him.  She  was  proud  and  pleased,  and  at- 
tempted no  concealment.  He  pulled  on  a  pair  of  brand 
new  and  very  yellow  gloves,  tilted  his  hat  a  little  further 
back  on  his  head,  blew  his  nose  with  a  stiff  new  hand- 
kerchief, and  strode  away — a  Hon  in  his  home-coming, 
a  laddie  who  had  joined  his  lassie  on  that  beautiful 
Christmas  morning. 
And  the  fattest  drummer  fairly  snorted. 

A  Bit  of  I  was  on  a  train  between  Salisbury  and  Asheville. 
aysee  rj,^^  first-class  coach  was  occupied  by  men  only — bored- 
looking  men  who  rode  in  silence.  When  the  train 
stopped  at  a  small  station  a  red-cheeked  country  girl 
suddenly  appeared  in  the  aisle.  She  had  a  smihng  face, 
bright,  happy  eyes,  and  wore  a  muchly  washed  skirt 
that  was  too  short,  and  starchy  looking  white  stockings. 
She  looked  down  the  aisle,  court esied,  and  said  genially: 
"Good  morning." 

The  man  closest  to  her  turned  to  see  the  man  to 
whom  the  girl  spoke.  He  found  every  man  in  the  car 
turning  to  look  at  the  man  behind  him;  and  then  it 
dawned  on  the  occupants  of  the  car  that  the  salutation 
was  addressed  to  everybody  in  the  coach.    The  silence 

[64] 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES 

was  not  broken.  The  girl  rode  fifty  miles,  then  stood 
up  in  the  aisle  once  more,  looked  down  the  car  and 
said  cheerfully: 

"Well,  good-bye,"  and  left  the  train. 

Again  there  was  silence.  Men  looked  at  one  another 
stealthily  and  smiled.  They  had  had  a  breath  from  the 
sweet  green  fields — had  been  touched  with  kindly  hay- 
seed. 

The  death  of  John  R.  Morris  marked  the  passing  of  JohnR. 
an  original  man.  He  knew  the  other  man;  knew  hu-  ^'^"^ 
man  nature;  saw  weakness  and  strength,  and  found 
good  in  almost  everybody.  He  used  to  drop  in  here  and  . 
sit  across  the  table;  and  one  never  knew  whether  he 
would  discuss  the  art  of  the  sixteenth  century,  the  weak- 
ness of  a  United  States  senator,  or  the  poetry  of  Walt 
Whitman;  but  he  showed  exact  knowledge  in  whatever 
he  talked  about.  He  knew  the  history  of  the  Booth 
family,  dates  and  all;  laughed  at  passages  in  Chaucer; 
found  the  discrepancies  in  Josephus;  had  intense  ad- 
miration for  St.  Paul;  could  have  written  a  biography 
of  Charles  the  Fifth;  and  was  very  much  interested  in 
the  boll  weevil.  And  he  looked  up  from  some  abstruse 
Hebrew  doctrine  to  say  that  he  liked  "John  Halifax, 
Gentleman,"  more  than  any  book  he  had  ever  read. 
He  was  in  his  own  class — a  genius  who  loved  Ruskin, 
and  sold  tin  cups.  But  in  him  there  was  no  contradic- 
tion or  inconsistency.  He  was  the  odd  man  who  found 
everything  interesting,  from  a  butterfly  to  a  man  of  war; 
and  yet  he  stood  on  his  feet  and  smiled  long  before  he 
died,  in  admitting  that  the  hand  of  death  was  upon  him. 
5  [65J 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

And  this  was  the  last  thing  he  ever  wrote:  "Never 
mind,  old  friend ;  there  will  be  a  time  when  we  can  see 
better — when  seemingly  dark  and  blank  areas  over  our 
head  will  bud  with  tender  stars." 

Governor  It  is  not  necessary  to  add  anything  to  the  sketch  of 
Aycock  jyj-j.^  Daniels,  and  yet  the  Governor  is  such  an  interesting 
man  that  one  can  hardly  say  enough  words  about  him. 
I  think  his  curious  consistency  of  character  impresses 
one  more  than  anything  else  in  his  make-up.  Like  the 
rest  of  mankind,  he  has  Hghts  and  shadows  in  his  life, 
and  a  variety  of  moods,  yet  underneath  all  this  he  has  a 
pleasing  sameness  that  is  the  essence  of  reliableness.  I 
have  seen  him  in  an  old  dressing-gown,  smoking  a  short 
clay  pipe;  have  seen  him  surrounded  by  flattering 
women;  have  seen  him  stand  within  four  feet  of  the 
President  of  the  United  States  and  make  a  speech  that 
was  admittedly  better  than  the  speech  of  the  President ; 
and  yet  I  could  see  no  difference  in  the  Governor  or 
the  man.  He  is  a  rare  being  who  is  absolutely  devoid  of 
pretense  or  affectation,  and  this  is  so  simply  and  strongly 
marked  in  him  that  it  must  immediately  impress  a 
stranger  or  a  child.  He  lacks  not  in  dignity,  but  any 
man  in  the  commonwealth  can  approach  the  Governor 
and  find  the  real  heart  of  the  man.  He  has  become 
notable  in  his  own  State  and  abroad,  and  he  must  grow 
greater  because  he  is  intensely  sincere,  intensely  ear- 
nest, intensely  patriotic. 

Walter  Page      There  is  nothing  to  add  to  this  simple  tale  of  a  busy, 
happy  life,  though  much  might  be  said  in  appreciation. 

[66] 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES 

It  has  been  said  that  Mr.  Page  is  the  greatest  North 
Carolinian,  and  in  making  a  comparison  to  define  his 
place  in  the  literary  world  the  survey  would  not  be  con- 
fined to  a  single  continent.  It  has  been  said  also — and 
this  is  by  the  way — that  at  times  he  has  criticised  with 
undue  severity  certain  phases  of  life  down  here.  In 
this  he  makes  no  defense,  needs  no  defense.  It  is  re- 
membered, however,  that  at  the  educational  meeting 
in  Charlotte  last  May  he  spoke,  and  his  theme  was 
North  Carolina  and  the  natural  bigness  of  her  people. 
He  believes  in  the  State — loves  it,  and  marked  it  for  a 
glorious  future.  He  did  this  without  the  maudlin  sen- 
timent that  is  so  common  and  meaningless.  And  his 
criticisms  have  been,  likewise,  crisp  and  clean — honest 
and  kindly. 

This  writing  struggles  against  the  enthusiasm  that 
would  so  easily  come.  It  is  difficult  to  keep  from  prais- 
ing a  man  who  always  thinks  understanding^  and 
writes  without  adjectives. 

The  comment  man  is  proud  to  admit  publicly  that  A  Professor 
he  has  a  great  fondness  for  Dr.  C.  Alphonso  Smith,  Banio*^ 
professor  of  English  at  the  State  University,  who  made 
an  address  at  Davidson  College  the  other  day.  Dr. 
Smith  is  one  professor  who  is  very  much  like  folks. 
There  may  be  other  professors  like  this,  but  they  are 
generally  at  the  bottom  of  the  barrel.  Dr.  Smith  is 
quite  on  to  his  job  and  can  discourse  in  the  genuine 
Chaucer — the  bloomin'  chanticleer  part  and  all — but 
he  is  not  foolish  about  it.  He  has  a  quality  of  horse- 
sense  that  is  priceless — and  he  picks  the  banjo.  No 
[67] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

piano,  or  guitar,  or  violin,  but  a  banjo  that  gives  out 
old-fashioned  negro  melodies  and  allows  an  unctuous, 
unmeaning  carol  of  the  cotton  field.  The  fact  is  noted 
merely  in  passing.  Dr.  Smith  has  reputation  outside  of 
North  Carolina  and  he  deserves  it.  He  is  a  big  man  in 
his  profession,  and  he  will  grow  bigger.  All  the  ultra- 
isms  that  there  may  be  in  his  craft  he  has  at  his  tongue's 
end ;  and  yet  it  is  good  to  think  that  he  is  an  artist  with 
the  banjo — good  to  think  that  students  are  under  the 
supervision  of  a  man  who,  however  learned  he  may  be, 
has  the  heart  to  turn  from  the  dryness  of  book  lore  and 
knock  a  banjo  silly.  Yes,  Dr.  C.  Alphonso  Smith  is 
nicely  like  folks. 

Minister  By  this  time  Minister  Wu  has  become  settled  in  his 
old  home  in  China.  Several  people  were  laughing  the 
other  day  about  Mr.  Wu's  visit  to  this  city.  Residents 
proudly  showed  him  all  there  was  to  see  of  progress  and 
local  industrial  development;  showed  him  the  Meck- 
lenburg monument  and  took  him  through  cotton  mills 
and  other  big  plants.  But  what  interested  the  Celestial 
more  than  anything  he  saw  during  his  stay  in  Char- 
lotte was  a  made-in- Germany  cloth  register  that  he 
found  in  the  Gingham  Mill. 

The  first  time  the  writer  ever  saw  Minister  Wu  he 
was  coming  down  a  narrow,  befouled  street  in  the  old 
city  of  Shanghai.  He  sat  in  a  magnificent  Sedan  chair. 
Before  him  were  outriders  and  footmen  shouting  strange 
jargon  and  carrying  big  placards  which  told  of  their 
master's  official  position.  The  smell  about  was  so 
strong  that  it  could  have  been  almost  cut  with  a  knife, 
[68] 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES 

but  the  minister — he  was  a  mere  taotai  then — was  on 
his  native  heath.  He  is  there  now,  and  he  is  happier 
there  than  he  was  at  any  State  dinner  in  Washington. 
Scratch  a  Chinaman  for  a  thousand  years  and  you  will 
find  a — Chinaman.  We  think  we  will  teach  things  to 
those  people ;  they  know  we  will  never  teach  them. 

The  Daughters  of  the  Confederacy  were  fortunate  in  Major 
getting  Major  Charles  M.  Steadman,  of  Greensboro,  to  ^^  ™^^ 
make  the  address  at  the  exercises  to  be  held  to-morrow 
in  honor  of  General  Robert  E.  Lee  and  General  Stone- 
wall Jackson.  Major  Steadman  may  or  may  not  be 
nominated  for  the  governorship,  but  he  has  always 
been,  and  will  be  till  he  dies,  what  is  much  better  than 
being  Governor — the  best  type  of  a  Southern  gentle- 
man. The  writer  offers  an  apology  for  this  public  deal- 
ing with  Major  Steadman's  personality;  and  yet 
knowledge  of  him  has  been  pubHc  for  a  good  many 
years.  He  is  one  of  the  older  men  in  this  State  that  the 
younger  men  point  at  with  pride,  or  as  a  model  in  man- 
ners and  for  the  unfailing  consideration  that  he  shows 
to  all  with  whom  he  comes  in  contact.  The  tribute 
that  he  receives  now  and  will  receive  is  worth  more 
than  all  political  honors.  He  is  as  clean  in  ideas  and 
in  dress  as  a  refined  woman ;  he  has  the  bow  of  a  Ches- 
terfield; and  he  gives  honest,  not  assumed,  courtesy 
and  deference  to  men  thirty  years  his  junior.  In  saying 
that  such  a  type  is  rare  one  hazards  a  drastic  criticism, 
yet  the  type  is  rare.  Speaking  broadly,  an  old  man  is 
not  half  so  thoughtful  or  sympathetic  as  an  old  woman, 
and  he  is  apt  to  make  too  open  use  of  the  advantage  his 
[69] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Major  years  and  experience  give  him.  He  is  less  tolerant  with 
Steadman  yQ^^j^^  g^j^jj  j^g  ^qq  often  considers  it  his  privilege  to  drop 
affability  and  shroud  himself  closely  in  the  dignity  of 
his  years.  He  hfts  his  hat  not  so  often,  loses  enthusi- 
asm in  a  hand-shake,  and  makes  one  approach  him 
with  a  respect  that  precludes  confidence.  This  is  writ- 
ten with  reverence  for  age,  yet  with  wonder  over  one 
misfortune  of  age.  Lord,  what  opportunities  old  men 
neglect  for  giving  happiness!  Youth  values  so  much 
the  appreciation  and  comradeship  of  age,  and  the  old 
men  who  are  kindly  and  unselfish  and  pat  youth  on  the 
back  are  the  best-beloved  people  in  the  world.  Every 
man  has  in  mind  a  few  such  old  men  and  finds  it  diffi- 
cult to  understand  why  all  old  men  are  not  that  way. 
Respect  that  they  demand  could  be  so  quickly  had 
without  the  asking  if  they  smiled  more  generously  and 
were  less  dictatorial  and  opinionative,  and  to  respect 
would  be  added  more  honor  and  admiration.  A  man 
lives  not  very  long  before  he  discovers  that  nobody  be- 
neath the  stars  is  really  wise,  and  that  all  speech  shows 
the  impress  of  ignorance,  in  varying  degrees,  on  human 
brain.  Age  could  so  sweetly  afford  to  be  humble  in  the 
knowledge  it  attains.  Added  years  could  give  so  much 
warmth  and  encouragement  to  youth  just  by  a  friendly 
touch,  by  sympathy;  and  could  add  so  much  to  its  own 
high  estate  in  the  niceties  that  govern  the  smaller  as 
well  as  the  larger  affairs  of  fife.  It  is  because  Major 
Steadman  thinks  of  these  things  that  he  is  held  up  for 
inspection.  If  he  wins  in  the  political  race  it  will  be 
not  so  much  because  he  is  a  statesman  and  a  Confed- 
erate veteran,  but  because  he  has  given  the  young  men 

[70] 


CHARACTER  SKETCHES 

reason  to  love  him.  If  he  loses,  they  will  love  him  still, 
for  the  old  man  courteous  is  so  rare  as  to  be  prized ;  so 
complete  is  the  purpose  of  his  making  that  love  and 
gratefulness  will  encompass  him  to  the  very  end. 

This  community  misses  Rev.  George  H.  Atkinson,  Rev. 
who  has  gone  down  to  Monroe  to  take  charge  of  the  Atkmson 
Presbyterian  church  there.  Excepting  his  boyhood 
days,  he  had  Hved  here  only  a  little  while,  but  he  man- 
aged, without  effort,  to  make  everybody  like  him.  And 
he  liked  everybody.  His  life,  apart  from  what  he  had 
to  say  in  the  pulpit,  was  a  daily  ministry.  Always  he 
shook  hands  with  people  and  smiled  joyously;  always 
he  was  sympathetic  and  had  kind  words  to  say.  He  did 
not  talk  religion  overmuch,  but  he  showed  the  world 
that  his  religion  had  made  him  perfectly  happy  and 
had  stimulated  his  sense  of  humor.  He  was  equally  at 
home  with  the  mill  operative  and  the  patrician,  and  he 
was  loved  by  both  because  he  lived  the  doctrine  of  un- 
selfishness and  radiated  love  as  he  breathed.  He  gen- 
erally made  people  think  better  of  themselves,  and  thus 
he  exercised  fine,  gentle  art,  unflavored  by  flattery.  He 
never  jarred  or  rubbed  the  wrong  way,  for  his  tact  was 
part  of  his  religion.  He  was  not  a  man  who  made  big 
impressions,  for  his  influence  was  subtle,  though  insist- 
ent—the quality  of  a  man  who  would  offer  strength  to 
help  weakness,  gladness  to  bless  happiness,  or  intuitive 
sympathy  as  heartsease.  He  is  not  a  man  to  rave  over, 
and  this  is  not  raving.  'Tis  the  honest  appreciation  that 
does  not  usually  come  to  a  man  until  after  he  is  dead. 
George  Atkinson  may  not  be  a  great  preacher,  but  he 
[71] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

does  good  just  by  living  and  touching  his  fellow  man. 
The  man  who  would  go  out  of  his  way  to  say  one  kindly 
thing  to  another  man  is  to  be  counted  an  exception. 
George  Atkinson  wishes  to  help  all  mankind  by  gentle 
speech.  If  he  were  to  die  to-morrow  his  life  might  be 
termed  perfect  in  its  purpose  and  use  of  opportunities ; 
and  the  largeness  of  his  simple  living  must  constitute 
the  apology  for  this  thrust  at  his  privacy. 

The  Last  of  The  last  of  the  Romans  says  few  words  to  any  man, 
e  omansg^j^j  j^^  -^  ^^^^  oftenest  as  he  bends  his  whited  head  and 
waters  his  roses.  He  has  finished  with  the  long  fray — 
has  seen  all  there  is  to  see  in  life ;  and  now,  in  the  even- 
ing, he  leaves  the  haunts  of  men  and  leans  tenderly  over 
the  smallest  rosebud  that  blossoms  in  the  tangled  hedge. 
He  is  the  most  striking  figure  that  comes  on  these 
streets;  and  he  walks  alone  and  unheeding  save  when 
he  is  stopped  now  and  then  by  one  who  would  ask  a 
kindness.  He,  who  has  seen  all  his  generation  pass  into 
dust,  has  found  solitude  without  courting  it,  but  since 
it  has  come  he  takes  it  as  a  philosopher  unafraid — clear- 
eyed,  strong,  straight,  not  stooping  except  where  the 
roses  grow.  If  he  has  always  cared  for  flowers  that  is 
not  known.  He  has  been  in  the  great,  tumultuous 
struggles  and  has  done  his  part  therein.  Maybe  he  had 
no  time  for  flowers  then,  but  he  loves  them  now,  and 
makes  them  supreme  in  the  interest  of  his  living.  They 
keep  the  last  of  the  Romans  from  being  too  severe ;  and 
he  is  very  human  and  approachable  as  he — distin- 
guished jurist  and  gentleman — stands  by  the  rose  bush, 
still  touched  with  the  glories  of  the  dying  sun. 

I72] 


CHAPTER  IV 


NEGRO   TYPES 


Little  Hinry  has  been  exiled.  Little  Hinry 

Black  as  ebony  he  is  and  only  twelve  years  of  age;  and 
because  one  leg  came  under  a  railroad  car  Hinry  must 
forever  bob  along  upon  a  cheap,  wooden  thing  that 
may  not  be  called  a  leg  even  in  mockery. 

But  Hinry  has  incurred  the  displeasure  of  the  re- 
corder and  Hinry  is  banished  from  the  streets. 

Everybody  knows  Hinry — knows  that  shrewd,  imp- 
ish grin  and  remembers  that 

"  Shine,  sir  ?  Shine  ?  "  For  Hinry  is,  or  was,  a  boot- 
black, privileged  to  shine  shoes  without  paying  the 
usual  license.  He  found  an  old  dry  goods  box  and  he 
rigged  up  an  old  chair  which  was  the  joy  and  pride  of 
his  life;  and  Hinry  plied  his  trade  and  kept  hunger 
from  his  small  body. 

But  the  recorder  laid  his  heavy,  just  hand  on  Hinry 
and  Hinry  is  exiled. 

Aye,  but  the  crime  of  Hinry  was  grievous — enough  to 
tax  the  patience  of  the  recorder.  Hinry  quarrelled  with 
two  other  little  boys  who  teased  him,  and  because  he 
hobbled  around  and  gathered  stones  and  made  as  if  to 
throw  these  at  his  tormentors,  he  was  arrested  by  the 
[73] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Little  Hinry  stalwart  officers  of  the  law  and  was  accorded  the  honor 
of  a  trial  in  the  open  and  honorable  court. 

Because  the  offense  was  so  great,  it  was  meet  that  the 
punishment  should  be  great,  and  so  it  is  eminently  right 
that  Hinry  should  go  into  exile — this  Hinry  who  has 
trampled  underfoot — only  one  foot — the  law  of  his  native 
land. 

For  four  years  Hinry,  who  has  a  grandmother  and  a 
comfortable  bed,  has  never  sought  his  home  save  when 
the  weather  was  bitter  and  he  could  not  stay  out  of 
doors.  When  the  elements  have  been  kind  Hinry  has 
slept,  by  preference,  in  alley-ways,  dry-goods  boxes,  and 
very  often  in  The  Observer  building.  He  had  the  run 
of  the  place  here,  and  many  a  time  and  oft  he  has  climbed 
on  the  window  ledge  in  the  front  office  of  the  print  shop 
and  has  composed  himself  to  slumber  in  plain  view  of 
many  policemen.  When  aroused  he  growled  and 
grinned  and  consented  to  move  not  further  away  from 
his  improvised  couch  than  the  carpeted  corridor  that 
leads  to  the  editorial  rooms  of  this  paper.  Here  Hinry 
has  slept  countless  times,  curled  up  hke  a  little,  black, 
maimed  dog. 

But  Hinry,  who  has  so  cruelly  broken  the  law  and  is 
an  exile,  will  sleep  here  no  more. 

The  poor,  old,  worn-out  chair,  which  glorified  the  life 
of  little  Hinry,  has  gone — banished  also  by  the  just  edict 
of  Recorder  Shannonhouse.  For  very  many  days  the 
chair  has  stood  just  in  front  of  The  Observer  building, 
and  little  Hinry  tried  to  entice  into  its  embrace  all  man- 
ner of  men.  They  will  not  be  molested  now — these 
customers  of  little  Hinry — this  little  black  waif  who 

[74l 


NEGRO  TYPES 

must  needs  wander  on  deserted  back  streets  and  weep 
in  memory  of  a  happiness  that  is  lost. 

For  the  recorder  was  firm,  as  he  should  have  been, 
and  gave  orders  to  the  police  that  if  ever  Hinry  is  seen 
on  the  streets  again  he  must  be  arrested.  And  Hinry's 
arrest,  be  it  known,  will  mean  summary  conviction  and 
imprisonment  on  the  chain-gang. 

And  so  one  more  foul  disturber  of  the  peace  has  suf- 
fered a  well-merited  fate,  and  yet  again  the  recorder 
can  sleep  in  the  perfect  assurance  of  duty  well  per- 
formed. 

Hinry — little  black  Hinry — will  no  longer  threaten 
the  welfare  of  this  community. 

For  Hinry  is  an  exile. 

By  9 130  yesterday  morning  a  large  number  of  visiting  The 
and  resident  Masons  and  other  interested  spectators  ceremonv 
had  gathered  in  the  large  auditorium  at  the  park  to  wit- 
ness the  performance  of  the  famous  coon-dog  marriage 
ceremony  by  its  author.  Col.  D.  G.  Maxwell.  Publica- 
tion had  been  made  merely  as  to  the  fact  that  the  negro 
couple  would  be  married,  and  as  to  the  exact  mode  or 
form  of  the  nuptials  speculation  was  rife. 

The  preparations  for  the  ceremony  were  ridiculous 
beyond  words.  Wearing  the  robe  of  Cardinal  Rich- 
elieu, borrowed  from  the  Peters  &  King  Stock  Com- 
pany, and  false  wig,  moustache  and  beard.  Colonel 
Maxwell  advanced  to  the  centre  of  the  stage,  followed 
by  five  or  six  nobles.  One  of  these  was  Mr.  A.  E.  Fu- 
gle, of  Columbia,  S.  C,  who  carried  a  shot  gun  at  pre- 
sent arms,  while  Mr.  R.  W.  Roberts  waved  a  sabre. 
[75] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  The  other  nobles  were  Messrs.  C.  P.  Snuggs,  W.  J. 
Cer°emonf  ^^S  and  C.  E.  Stenerson. 

At  a  signal,  Mr.  Robert  Ogden,  who  was  seated  at  the 
piano,  began  the  wedding  march,  "The  Georgia  Camp 
Meeting."  Entering  through  the  main  door,  the  bridal 
couple,  Ephraim  Johnson  and  Margaret  Williams, 
came  down  the  centre  aisle,  preceded  by  Sam  Mosely, 
who  held  aloft  a  huge  bouquet.  With  his  arm  round 
his  bride,  the  groom  advanced  the  full  length  of  the  hall 
at  cake-walk  pace.  To  make  the  affair  more  absurd, 
both  were  quite  solemn. 

After  a  moment's  wait  in  the  dressing-room  the  bridal 
couple  marched  on  the  stage  to  slow  music.  Then  came 
the  sonorous  voice  of  Colonel  Maxwell  in  the  words  of 
his  own  invention. 

"We  have  assembled  here  together,  my  friends  and 
brother  Masons,  upon  this  historic  spot,"  said  he,  "to 
celebrate  the  nuptial  ties  of  the  couple  now  present. 
And  as  they  launch  their  boat  off  in  the  ocean  of  con- 
nubial bliss,  we  will  bid  them  'olive  oil'  and  fling  an 
old  shoe  and  a  handful  of  rice  forninst  them;  and  may 
their  hull  be  free  from  the  barnacles  of  life,  and  be 
never  subject  to  squalls,  nor  cries  of  '  ship  ahoy ! ' "  Here 
the  Colonel  asked  the  usual  questions  required  by  law, 
and  then,  in  stentorian  voice,  pronounced  the  couple 
man  and  wife,  "by  the  authority  vested  in  him  by  the 
Commonwealth  of  North  Carolina,  which  is  sometimes 
called  the  Tar  Heel  State  of  this  confederation  of  fu- 
sion, and  by  the  county  of  Mecklenburg,  known  as  the 
cradle  of  American  liberty;  by  the  smoking  tar  kilns 
and  the  bleeding  sentinels  of  our  turpentine  fields;  by 

[76] 


NEGRO  TYPES 

the  old  flea-bitten  coon  dog,  whose  basso-profundo  The 
voice  is  heard  in  the  gloaming;  by  recollections  of  the  ceremony 
fat  baked  opossum,  with  sides  lined  with  sop,  sweet  po- 
tatoes and  hoe-cake,  to  say  nothing  of  the  sweet  and 
luscious  '  watermilHon ' ;  by  the  free-silver  fake  of  i6  to 
I,  which  some  think  is  the  panacea  of  all  national  ills; 
by  the  Dingley  tariff-bill,  which  is  to  bring  forth  the 
long-wished-for  wave  of  prosperity;  by  the  song  of  the 
gold-bug,  which  some  say  is  the  dirge  of  the  people 
and  the  glorification  of  trusts  and  monopolies;  by  the 
loud  and  clarion  notes  of  the  old  Shanghai  chanticleer, 
heard  in  the  early  morn  calling  upon  his  comrades  to 
shake  off  their  lethargy ;  and  last,  but  not  least,  by  the 
memory  of  the  Decklenburg  Mecklapendence  of  Inju- 
ration.  Whomsoever  the  laws  of  North  Carolina  have 
joined  together,  let  no  man  put  asunder.  Salute  your 
bride,  and  may  the  Lord  have  mercy  upon  your  souls!" 
The  utter  absurdity  of  the  situation  convulsed  the  en- 
tire audience  with  laughter.  The  bridal  couple  smiled 
appreciatively,  just  as  star-actors.  Evidently  they  had 
rehearsed  to  some  effect,  for  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
ceremony  the  nimble  groom,  garbed  in  a  long  frock 
coat  and  carrying  a  frayed  silk  hat  in  his  hand,  sprang 
to  the  centre  of  the  stage  and  faced  his  bride,  who  was 
arrayed  in  white  lawn  over  black,  and  who  began  to 
quickstep  with  body  thrown  far  back  in  cake-walk 
style.  Their  dancing  was  superb.  'Twas  too  utterly 
ridiculous  to  be  true;  and  the  audience  applauded  in 
screams.  Again  and  yet  again  the  dusky  couple  were 
encored,  and  twice  they  returned  to  the  stage  to  intro- 
duce some  novelty  in  step-dancing.  Finally  they  left 
[77] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

the  stage  and  proceeded,  in  cake-walk  dance,  through 
the  auditorium  and  into  the  open.  A  few  minutes  pre- 
vious to  their  departure,  their  attendant,  Sam  Mosely, 
passed  a  silk  hat  among  the  audience  and  collected 
money  sufficient  to  defray  the  expenses  of  a  wedding 
trip.    Thus  was  the  coon-dog  ceremony  performed. 

Aunt  The  funeral  services  of  "Aunt"  Cynthia  Carson 
Cynthia  ^gj.g  conducted  at  the  residence  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  James 
H.  Carson,  on  South  Tryon  street,  at  3 130  o'clock  yes- 
terday afternoon,  by  Rev.  Dr.  J.  R.  Howerton,  pastor 
of  the  First  Presbyterian  Church.  The  pall-bearers,  all 
well-known  colored  men,  were  Moses  Shipp,  Noah 
French,  Willis  Brice,  and  Love  WilHams. 

Many  flowers  were  there,  the  testimony  of  affection 
of  members  of  the  Carson  family  and  many  others. 
Conspicuous  in  the  floral  offerings  was  a  calla  lily  cross 
sent  by  Mrs.  Harvey  H.  Orr. 

The  services  were  simple,  yet  impressive.  Aunt 
Cynthia  lived  in  a  house  in  the  rear  of  the  Carson  home. 
From  here  the  body  was  carried  to  the  Carson  resi- 
dence and  placed  in  the  parlor.  Practically  all  the  Car- 
son family  and  connection  and  other  white  people,  to- 
gether with  a  score  or  more  of  the  older  colored  per- 
sons, assembled  in  the  large  rooms  to  pay  the  last  trib- 
ute to  the  aged  woman. 

The  hymns,  "How  Firm  a  Foundation"  and  "Asleep 
in  Jesus,"  were  sung,  and  Dr.  Howerton  made  a  brief, 
earnest  address,  touching  on  the  good  quahties  of 
"Aunt"  Cynthia  and  holding  up  her  life  as  a  memorial 
to  faithfulness  and  love. 

[78] 


NEGRO  TYPES 

The  Carson  family  and  others,  including  the  negroes,  Aunt  _ 
followed  the  body  to  Pinewood  Cemetery.  ^^    ^ 

The  funeral  services  presented  a  Southern  picture  in 
full  simplicity  and  beauty,  A  mammy  of  the  old  type 
had  passed.  She  rested  in  state  for  a  time  in  the  big 
house,  to  use  the  negro  vernacular,  and  this  rounded  up 
honorably  a  life  that  was  humbly  perfect. 

' '  Aunt ' '  Cynthia  was  nearly  ninety  years  old.  She  had 
been  a  slave  of  the  Carson  family  before  the  war,  and 
she  had  served  Mr.  and  Mrs.  James  H.  Carson  for  half 
a  century.  She  nursed  every  one  of  their  children  and 
held  them  as  her  own  children.  From  the  parents  and 
from  the  children  she  demanded  and  received  a  com- 
mon share  in  happiness  and  sorrow.  All  that  touched 
the  family  touched  her.  Her  whole  life  was  one  of  ser- 
vice and  loyalty. 

She  knew  not  a  great  deal  that  happened  outside 
her  people,  and  cared  to  know  but  little.  The  Carson 
boys  were  her  boys  and  remained  her  boys  until  she 
died.  She  watched  over  them  unceasingly  when  they 
were  small,  and  when  they  became  grown  she  still 
claimed  a  part  in  their  lives.  She  did  not  lose  her  early 
idea  of  her  slavery,  but  it  was  a  pretty  idea  that  carried 
dignity  without  undue  obeisance. 

When  the  old  black  mammy  became  too  old  for  ser- 
vice, Mr.  James  H.  Carson  built  her  a  house  in  the  rear 
of  his  own  residence  and  there  she  spent  her  last  days  in 
peace.  Every  Sunday  afternoon  each  one  of  the  Carson 
men  visited  her.  They  came  to  her,  too,  at  other  times, 
and  their  vdves  and  children  gave  to  her  the  affection 
that  was  so  readily  returned.  She  kept  up  with  what 
[79] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

every  member  of  the  family  was  doing  and  was  privi- 
leged to  ask  any  question  she  pleased.  She  was  the  best 
type  of  her  race,  and  her  living  and  its  meaning  stand 
for  an  ideal  that  will  Hve  as  the  South  will  live. 

Such  deaths  in  the  South  have  become  rare.  Ten 
years  from  now  they  will  not  occur.  The  aged  negro 
who  was  both  servant  and  friend  of  the  white  man  is 
seen  infrequently.  The  type  shows  a  certain  grandeur 
for  all  its  lack  of  ostentation.  Three  years  ago,  when 
Col.  W.  R.  Myers,  of  this  city,  lay  on  his  death-bed,  an 
old  ex-slave  came  unsummoned  and  sat  by  his  master 
until  his  master  and  friend  had  died.  No  one  was  sur- 
prised, yet  future  generations  must  uncover  in  memory 
of  such  a  scene. 

"Aunt"  Cynthia's  vision  was  confined  to  the  big 
house  and  her  own  little  dwelling,  and  her  hfe's  pur- 
pose was  single,  clear  and  very  beautiful.  In  her  own 
mind  and  heart  she  found  the  perfect  reward  here.  In 
her  last  days  she  had  her  own  servant  to  nurse  and  tend 
her,  and  her  condition  brought  many  anxious,  sympa- 
thetic faces  to  her  bedside.  The  old  black  mammy  had 
failed  in  nothing  and  had  given  all  she  had  to  give  of 
love;  and  the  blessed  consummation  of  her  devotion 
came  when  love  was  leaning  over  and  touching  her  even 
as  the  spirit  went  out. 

_  Major      Old  Major  Jim  Fox  is  dead  and  buried.    Don't  you 

Jim    ox  j-gj^gjnber  him  ?    Then  you  know  nothing  of  Hf e  in  the 

Central  Hotel  as  it  was  fifteen  years  ago.    Major  Fox 

was  employed  in  the  office  and  he  was  always  at  the 

front.    He  was  but  little  taller  than  his  feet  were  long, 

[80] 


NEGRO  TYPES 

and  he  had  hands  fit  to  shake  with  a  bear.    He  was  a  Major 
Mecklenburg  product,  and  was  gray-haired  when  he  ■'"^    °^ 
first  entered  the  employment  of  Eccles  &  Bryan,  thirty- 
five  years  ago.    He  was  somewhere  in  the  nineties.    Per- 
haps he  was  a  hundred.    Who  knows  ? 

As  a  hotel  attache,  Major  Fox  was  strictly  attentive 
to  business.  No  guest  ever  laid  down  a  half-consumed 
cigar  and  picked  it  up  again — not  while  the  major  was 
on  duty.  Both  Mr.  Bryan  and  Mr.  Eccles  had  that 
habit,  but  he  broke  them  of  it  so  effectually  that  they 
have  never  returned  to  it,  although  old  Jim  has  not 
been  about  them  for  years.  Then,  as  a  tip-taker  he  was 
an  artist.  An  old  patron  of  the  Central  said  that  the 
major  always  got  him  for  a  dime  as  soon  as  he  landed 
from  the  'bus  and  handed  over  his  grip;  got  him  for 
another  dime  when  shown  to  his  room;  got  him  for  an- 
other dime  when  he  came  shufBing  in  with  ice  water, 
and  was  sure  to  tap  him  at  every  contact  during  his  stay 
at  the  hotel.  "And  do  you  believe  it,"  he  continued, 
"after  I  was  in  the  'bus  and  ready  to  go  to  the  depot,  it 
somehow  seemed  that  the  'bus  would  not  leave  until  old 
Jim  had  held  me  up  for  a  final  dime." 

The  major's  salary  as  head  porter  of  the  Central  was 
not  as  big  as  that  of  the  ordinary  bank  president,  yet  the 
old  darkey  became  rich,  in  a  way,  and  bought  up  good 
real  estate.  At  the  height  of  his  prosperity  he  was  in- 
duced by  two  Central  Hotel  darkies  to  chip  in  and  run 
an  excursion  to  Wilmington.  It  was  a  success,  and  the 
three  partners  made  what  each  considered  a  pile  of 
money.  Then  Major  Fox,  although  the  watermelon 
season  had  passed,  conceived  the  idea  of  running  an 
[8i] 


Color  Line 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

excursion  of  his  own.  He  chartered  a  train  of  six  cars 
on  the  Southern  for  an  excursion  from  Charlotte  to 
Winston.  On  the  morning  his  train  was  to  leave,  six 
passengers  applied  for  tickets.  Major  Fox  was  sure  of 
getting  20  at  Harrisburg,  100  at  Concord,  30  at  China 
Grove,  50  at  Sahsbury,  10  at  Lexington,  and  200  at 
Greensboro.  Those  were  his  figures,  and  despite  the 
entreaties  of  his  friends  to  abandon  his  project,  he  hur- 
riedly secured  a  lawyer,  gave  a  mortgage  on  his  prop- 
erty, borrowed  $265  on  it,  paid  it  over  to  the  Southern 
agent,  and  took  out  his  excursion  train.  The  train  was 
run  to  Winston  according  to  contract,  but  barring  the 
major  and  the  six  passengers  with  which  he  started 
from  Charlotte,  it  reached  Winston  empty.  The  old 
man  never  recovered  from  the  blow,  but  he  was  cured 
of  running  excursions.  He  gave  up  his  job  at  the  hotel 
and  thenceforth  had  hard  lines  to  the  end. 

Poor  old  Jim!  What  a  shower  of  tips  he  would  get 
if  that  capacious  black  hand  could  be  stretched  out  in 
the  flesh  to-day  to  those  who  were  wont  to  keep  it  pol- 
ished in  times  gone  by. 

The  In  this  country  a  child  draws  the  color  line  early,  as 
by  an  instinct.  Now,  young  Neil  Pharr,  Junior,  the 
son  of  State  Senator  Neill  Pharr,  is  a  wee  bit  of  a  boy 
only  about  four  years  old,  and  God  and  his  people  have 
been  kind  in  giving  to  him  Elsie,  a  black  mammy,  who 
loves  him  with  a  tenderness  and  fierceness  that  are 
beautiful.  She  gives  to  him  perfect  devotion,  devotes 
to  him  all  her  life.  They  are  comrades  by  night  and  in 
day  they  are  ever  together — this  aged  motherly  woman 

[82] 


NEGRO  TYPES 

with  the  cheery  face  and  the  bright  little  boy  in  his  first 
trousers.  In  the  family  deliberations  it  has  been  per- 
mitted the  black  mammy — white-hearted  as  a  princess 
of  the  blood — to  sit  in  the  intimate  semi-circle  that  faces 
the  fire  at  eventide.  Young  Neill  has  reached  the  age 
that  takes  notice  of  life  about.  A  Httle  while  ago,  as  his 
mammy  sat  there,  big,  comfy  and  at  ease,  he  walked  to 
her  and,  taking  her  hand,  silently  led  her  to  a  chair  a 
few  feet  in  the  rear  of  the  family  circle.  "You,  mam- 
my," he  said,  with  no  lack  of  tenderness  in  his  voice — 
"You,  mammy,  sit  here."  He  walked  back  to  the  cir- 
cle and,  resuming  his  seat  by  his  father,  gazed  thought- 
fully into  the  fire.  There  was  a  moment's  silence  and 
everybody  looked  at  either  the  black  mammy  or  her 
boy.  Then  a  voice  from  the  chair  Further  Back  came 
trembling  with  delight  and  saying : 

"  Marse  Neill— oh,  Marse  Neill,  ain't  he  pure  white  ?" 
*    *    * 

Here's  the  kindliest  solution  of  the  race  question. 
Here  are  the  love,  the  loyalty  and  the  appreciation ;  but 
the  negro  must  sit  back — Further  Back.  And  the  ne- 
gro, the  best  negro,  laughs  and  understands. 

Only  a  few  months  ago  a  Southern  gentleman,  aged  A  Faithful 
past  the  allotted  span,  came  to  die  in  this  city.  Without  ^^® 
the  asking  there  came  from  Texas  a  negro,  a  former 
slave,  who  was  of  his  master's  age.  Through  weeks  of 
a  lingering  illness  he  sat  by  the  side  of  his  old  master. 
He  nursed  him  as  one  would  tend  a  beloved  brother. 
And  he  was  the  faithful,  watchful  servant  until  death 
had  closed  his  master's  eyes.  At  the  last  touch  of  analy- 
[83] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

sis,  you  will  find  that  the  thing  that  made  the  old  negro 
come  back  to  his  dying  master  formed  the  basis  of  the 
present  well-being  of  the  negro.  As  the  old  servant,  he 
is  loved  for  that ;  for  that  his  son  is  liked  and  his  educa- 
tion is  welcomed.  The  feeling  is  a  blind,  indefinable 
something  that  includes  the  bootblack  and  the  bishop, 
and  holds  one  as  far  from  equahty  as  the  other.  This 
knowledge  is  the  birthright  of  a  Southern  child  and  is 
imbibed  by  all  who  come  South  to  live.  It  is  fair,  ac- 
curate and  unchangeable,  and  it  is  the  soul  of  harmony. 

Mother  Frequently  one  sees  in  the  streets  here  a  little  colored 
girl  about  three  years  old.  She  is  bow-legged  to  a  re- 
markable extent ;  she  is  very  black  with  not  a  pleasing 
facial  contour;  and,  moreover,  she  is  petulant  and  ill- 
tempered.  Yet  her  mother,  who  always  accompanies 
her,  dresses  the  child  as  if  she  were  the  heiress  of  thou- 
sands and  had  the  grace  of  a  wood  nymph.  She  wears 
a  bit  of  a  gold  bracelet  on  her  arm,  and  her  distorted 
figure  is  clothed  in  clinging  white  things  that  might  be- 
come a  tiny  princess.  She  and  her  mother  slowly  walk 
the  length  of  the  streets — past  beautiful  children  with  eyes 
of  blue  and  brown,  and  the  woman's  croon  and  the  look 
on  her  face  tell  that  she  finds  no  greater  love  than  her  own 
— no  more  perfect  child  than  the  dusky  toddler  at  her 
side.  Yet  there  is  nothing  wonderful  in  the  picture.  It 
is  but  a  quaintly  pitiful  illustration  of  the  great  mother- 
love  that  refuses  to  see  blemish  and  blesses  the  world. 

"Misery"      It  is  to  be  hoped  that  no  amount  of  education  will  pre- 
vent the  negroes  from  using  certain  words  that  are  pe- 

[84] 


NEGRO  TYPES 

culiarly  their  own.  Was  there  ever  a  time  that  the  col-  "  Misery  " 
ored  people  failed  to  misuse  the  word  "misery;"  could 
any  word  be  more  expressive  ?  Your  old  colored  mam- 
my tells  you  that  she  has  a  misery  in  her  side,  and  you 
know  that  she  has  used  the  only  suitable  word.  A  ne- 
gro woman,  smartly  dressed,  went  into  a  drug  store  last 
night  and  complained  of  a  misery  in  her  head,  and  her 
eyes  showed  the  feeling.  "  Misery  "  is  really  the  best  de- 
scriptive word  for  some  purely  physical  emotions.  Mis- 
ery in  the  head !  No  other  word  can  be  half  so  expres- 
sive, or  serve  as  a  synonym.  .  .  .  Misery !  You  see  the 
figure  bowed  in  the  dark  and  the  long-shuddering  ache 
— the  pain  that  means  utter  exhaustion.  .  .  .  There  is 
the  faint  smell  of  medicine,  the  weary  tossing  on  pillows 
— the  intense,  quick  loudness  of  little  outer  noise.  And 
there  is  other  misery  in  the  head — this  vital,  indefinable 
force  that  offers  black  pictures  to  the  gaze  of  insomnia, 
or  cries  for  remembrance  of  evil  things,  or  grips  taut 
nerves  as  a  summons  for  Remorse  to  come  to  the  white 
night. 


[85] 


CHAPTER  V 

WOMAN  AND  HER  WORLD 

Mirrors      The  subject  came  up  the  other  night : 

Are  mirrors  deceptive?  And  it  is  so.  You  look  in 
one  glass  and  you  have  that  creamy  complexion,  that 
dreamy,  soft  look  in  your  eyes,  and  fine  curving  lines ; 
but  another  mirror,  on  the  same  day,  shows  you  to  be 
liverish-visaged,  be-grinned  consciously  and  unattrac- 
tively, and  wrinkled  beyond  your  ears  and  years. 

In  two  separate  houses  in  this  place  there  are  glasses 
of  the  before-and-after-taking  species.  One,  kind  with 
a  lie,  allows  a  woman  to  go  out  with  lack-lustre  eyes 
and  plebeian  mould,  pleased  in  her  heart  with  the  beauty 
that  only  the  mirror  tells.  The  other  glass  basely  mocks 
Miss  Dainty  Face — mocks  Dainty  Face  in  trying  lights 
and  shadows.  Did  not  the  world  deny  the  tale  and 
wage  warfare  on  the  mirror  unhappiness  might  come. 
.  .  .  But  the  great  secret  is  not  to  be  told  by  mirrors 
after  all.  The  quality  of  fascination — the  thing  that 
holds  without  wish  for  release — that  is  not  as  the  vir- 
tue of  the  clean-limbed,  perfect-faced.  'Tis  the  clear, 
sweet,  hidden  touch  of  a  soul — the  essence,  indefinable, 
of  intense,  shuddering  longing;  the  epitome  of  all 
peace.  With  a  high  head  raised  for  choice,  man  some- 
[86] 


WOMAN  AND  HER  WORLD 

times  looks  admiringly  at  the  perfect  woman,  svelte, 
clear-eyed,  patrician,  warm  and  cold  .  .  .  and  loves 
past  heartsease  the  frailest  invalid  that  ever  misery 
made  selfish.  No;  mirrors  .  .  .  nor  nothing  .  .  .  can 
tell. 

''I've  no  use  for  these  men  who  know  things  about  a  Too 
woman's  clothes,"  said  a  Charlotte  lady  the  other  day.  ^^^°^"^g 
"A  married  man  ought  to  know  the  instant  his  wife  or 
his  daughter  needs  a  new  dress  or  hat,  but  an  unmar- 
ried man  has  no  business  knowing  the  difference  be- 
tween an  old  gown  and  a  new  gown,  and  he  shouldn't 
know,  for  instance,  that  there  is  such  a  thing  in  the 
world  as  a  silk  lining.  Nothing  gives  me  the  creeps 
so  quickly  as  the  feeling  that  I  am  being  sized  up  by  a 
man.  There  are  two  or  three  of  these  effeminate  criti- 
cal men  in  Charlotte  and  all  the  women  resent  their 
covert  inspection.  A  woman  dresses  at  and  for  other 
women,  and  a  man's  criticism  is  a  cruel  stab  from  an 
unexpected  quarter.  Why,  I  lost  liking  for  one  of  the 
best  friends  I  ever  had  simply  because  in  a  thought- 
less moment  he  told  me  how  many  evening  dresses  I 
had  and  described  each  one  of  them.  The  only  way  I 
could  have  punished  him  properly  would  have  been  to 
marry  him,  but  the  price  of  revenge  was  too  dear — and, 
besides,  he  said  that  the  thought  of  a  woman  in  a  ki- 
mona  bored  him  to  death.  That  was  the  limit.  So  long 
as  a  woman  isn't  slouchy,  or  doesn't  try  to  produce  an 
effect  with  an  assortment  of  colors  that  would  jar  a 
mule,  she  ought  to  be  free  from  a  male  expression  of 
opinion  as  to  the  quality  of  her  clothes." 
[87] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  Tactless  ''I've  been  talking  to  a  tactless  woman,"  said  the  ob- 
woman  servant  resident,  "  and  I  feel  kind  of  sick.  Oh,  it  doesn't 
make  any  difference  about  a  man.  A  man's  a  clumsy 
thing  in  finer  matters,  and  you  are  not  surprised  when 
he  stumbles  and  says  the  wrong  thing.  But  Nature 
must  laugh  mockingly  every  time  a  tactless  vv^oman  is 
born.  Ugh !  It  is  awful.  You  see,  you  can't  take  a  club 
— of  course  you  can't.  You  couldn't  make  any  impres- 
sion that  way.,  Here's  a  creature  that  is  so  delicately 
and  finely  constituted  from  birth  that  she  ought  to  be 
able  to  Hft  her  head  up  and  know  by  instinct  what  to  say 
and  do  under  all  circumstances.  Because  of  this  as- 
sumption, she  is  allowed  all  privileges.  She  may  dis- 
cuss any  subjects,  however  sacred;  and  nine  times  out 
of  ten  she  is  the  soul  of  tact  in  dealing  with  a  situation 
that  involves  any  kind  of  feehng.  When  she  is  an  ex- 
ception to  this  rule,  she  is  an  unnatural  something,  a 
freak,  an  unmeaning  torturer  who  strolls  around  and 
jerks  at  tense,  quivering  nerve.  '  To  know  how  to  do ' — 
that's  a  term  that  means  more  in  the  world  of  women 
than  in  the  world  of  men.  Not  a  great  deal  is  expected 
of  a  man.  If  he  keeps  his  face  and  linen  clean  and 
throws  his  shoulders  back  and  doesn't  talk  too  much, 
that  is  enough.  He  may  have  a  great  many  or  very 
few  parlor  tricks  and  graces,  but  they  are  not  essential. 
If  he  is  easy  in  his  manner  and  doesn't  put  to  shame 
the  woman  who  is  with  him,  he'll  get  along  all  right. 
In  other  words,  a  man  doesn't  have  to  know  how  to  do 
very  much,  and  he  can  continually  learn  how  to  rub  off 
the  rough  places  and  improve  himself.  But  it  is  differ- 
ent with  a  woman.     There  is  no  hope  for  a  tactless 

[88] 


WOMAN  AND  HER  WORLD 

woman — the  most  maimed  thing  in  Hfe.  She  causes 
more  suffering  than  the  toothache,  and  a  worse  kind  of 
suffering.  She  hasn't  a  bad  heart ;  she  means  well,  and 
she  goes  into  the  innermost  places  and  just  hops  around 
on  the  tenderest  corns.  She  is  a  travesty  on  her  sex  and 
is  to  be  pitied.  In  her  general  demeanor  she  is  like  one 
who  stabs  you  under  a  flag  of  truce;  for  the  tactless 
woman  will  go  anywhere  and  dare  to  do  anything. 
Her  ailment  is  incurable  and  is  spotted  at  a  glance. 
To  be  more  correct,  one  feels  her — feels  the  jar  of 
her  presence,  whether  she  be  active  or  inactive. 
Carelessly,  unknowingly,  she  goes  along  making 
sores  and  trampling  on  sore  places.  She  is  never  re- 
buked; one  never  quarrels  with  the  tactless  woman. 
One  may  not  cry  out  against  the  hurt  that  she  in- 
flicts. She  causes  the  world  to  wince  in  pain,  but 
all  her  victims  are  silent.  And  she  is  everywhere — 
poor,  miserable  blunderer. 

Every  now  and  then  there  wanders  into  the  village  a  The  Flirt 
young  woman  who  has  achieved  a  reputation  as  a  scalp- 
taker,  and  who  proceeds  to  play  a  little  game  of  hearts 
with  the  local  swains.  The  result  is  usually  harmless, 
for  the  woman  who  has  the  misfortune  to  be  advertised 
as  a  professional  flirt,  has  not,  as  a  rule,  qualities  that 
will  make  a  lasting  impression  on  a  man.  Nine  times 
out  of  ten  the  woman  who  is  publicly  marked  danger- 
ous is  not  dangerous — except,  possibly,  to  small  boys. 
The  women  who  belong  to  the  class  that  may  provoke 
a  revolution  or  send  men  to  the  devil  may  be  flirts,  but 
the  world  never  thinks  to  classify  them  as  such.  In 
[89] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  Flirt  other  words,  real  fascination  is  a  lov/-voiced,  quiet- 
moving  thing  and  travels  unheralded;  and  the  name 
of  the  woman  who  inspires  love  or  does  deep  hurt  is  not 
apt  to  be  flaunted. 

*    *    * 

Flirting  is  the  outcome  of  civilization  and  a  sign  of 
sexual  equahty.  Our  ancestors — good  old  pirates — 
flirted  only  with  clubs,  and  it  is  only  in  the  last  few  cen- 
turies that  their  female  descendants  have  been  accorded 
the  privileges  of  polite  dalliance  and  a  parade  of  cap- 
tives in  dress  clothes. 

Fhrting  is  a  game  that  is  played  with  brains  and  with- 
out brains,  and  lacking  brains  it  is  as  the  taste  of  heavy, 
stale  beer.  It  may  be  perfection  in  eyes,  hair,  form  and 
clothes,  but  unbacked  by  mental  smoothness  or  finesse 
it  is  a  stupid  and  a  wearisome  thing.  When  two  fools 
play  the  game  the  gods  must  laugh,  for  nothing  is  more 
ludicrous  than  a  bold  tongue's  clumsy  movement  in 
flattery  or  love-making. 

Is  the  pastime  to  be  condemned  altogether?  Of 
course.  It  too  often  carries  the  curse  of  cheapening  the 
man  and  the  woman,  or  it  may  cause  needless  heart- 
aches and  remorse.  Yet  it  is  a  social  habit  that  does 
not  weaken  under  censure.  We  may  hold  up  Priscilla, 
the  Puritan  maiden,  who  voiced  sincerity  and  only  that ; 
but  yonder  is  the  tilted-chinned  daughter  of  the  Cava- 
lier, with  a  half-challenging,  heavy  look  in  her  eyes. 
And  for  her  hypocritical,  constant,  tender,  imperious, 
wilful,  gentle,  mocking,  serious  self  the  world  will  for- 
give much. 

[90] 


WOMAN  AND  HER  WORLD 

And  there  is  the  girl  who  wishes  all  men  to  like  her,  A  Man's 
and  no  man  really  likes  that  sort  of  girl.    She  always  y^^"* 
looks  through  him  for  the  next  man,  and  hasn't  time  to 
pause  and  cultivate  one  good  friend.     The  girl  who 
makes  an  open  bid  for  popularity  and  likes  anything 
in  a  man's  clothes  had  better  marry  quick  to  save  neg- 
lect.    Men  are  shy  at  heart  with  a  woman  who  looks 
alike  at  all  men,  but  they  will  gladly  tie  to  the  kind  that 
has  common  sense  and  naturalness  enough  to  discrimi- 
nate.   The  girl  who  finds  unhappiness  at  the  end  of  a 
campaign  for  general   admiration   gets  an  inevitable 
result  and  no  sympathy.    She  is  a  common  blunderer 
and  too  often  seen.    My  lady  who  is  kind-hearted  and 
very  particular  wears  well  and  longest. 
*    *    * 

"And  there's  the  kind  of  a  woman  that  a  man  wants  to 
marry,"  continued  the  observant  man.  "She  may  not 
be  beautiful,  or  clever,  or  particularly  good,  but  she  is 
the  sort  of  person  that  he  would  hke  to  be  his  wife. 
The  man  may  not  propose  to  her,  or  be  in  love  with  her, 
but  mentally,  at  least,  he  stamps  her  for  wifehood,  and 
long,  sweet  wear.  It  is  providential  that  all  men  do  not 
think  alike  on  this  subject;  but  every  man  has  selected 
his  own  class — has  decided  as  to  what  woman  he  thinks 
he,  or  any  other  man,  ought  to  be  proud  to  marry.  A 
man  may  not  discuss  such  things,  for  his  judgment 
praises  a  few  women  and  is  not  complimentary  to  the 
majority.  Any  man,  saving  a  fool,  knows  that  most 
women  are  far  too  good  for  him,  but,  being  a  mere  man, 
he  seeks  for  the  Princess  when  he  comes  to  wed.  He 
finds  her  according  to  his  taste,  and  she  may  be  outside 
[91] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

the  sacred  class  that  his  mind  has  designated;  but  his 
ideals  are  unshattered,  and  he  will  go  on  through  life 
marking  those  who  would  bless  as  wife  and  those  who 
wouldn't. 

"  The  thing  is  as  natural  as  breathing.  Every  man 
who  knows  women  is  continually  making  the  secret 
dividing  line,  and  every  time  he  talks  to  a  woman  he  is 
prepared  to  tell  if  she  belongs  to,  or  is  excluded  from, 
his  Hst  of  women-for-wives. 

"And  a  woman?  A  woman  knows  quicker  than  a 
man — knows  at  a  glance.  Because  she  is  a  finer  thing 
her  class  is  stricter  as  to  entries.  Sometimes  she  dies 
after  wifehood  and  motherhood  .  .  .  and  there  have 
been  no  entries." 

An  Enigma  But  women  are  more  contradictory  than  men,  and, 
therefore,  more  interesting.  The  few  women  who  are 
even-tempered  and  steady-going  are  the  ones  you  would 
like  to  tie  to,  but  life  is  made  tumultuous  and  attractive 
by  the  women  who  may  be  commonplace  or  eesthetic,  or 
sunshine  and  tempest,  all  in  the  space  of  five  minutes. 
Most  of  the  celebrated  women  in  history  had  an  impar- 
tial fondness  for  murder  and  babies ;  and  in  every-day 
life  one  remembers  longest  the  woman  who  is  capable 
of  doing  anything,  and  is  always  doing  the  thing  unex- 
pected. Her  variableness  is  a  rare  torture  and  delight. 
She  has  a  figurative  range  from  pig's  feet  to  cream  puffs, 
and  she  may  be  a  big,  mannish  somebody  with  a  square 
jaw  who  weeps  on  your  shoulder  without  provocation, 
or  you  observe  that  she  is  soft  and  tiny  and  ethereal  and 
as  black-hearted  and  treacherous  as  the  worst  of  the 

[92] 


WOMAN  AND  HER  WORLD 

Circes.  When  you  have  ceased  to  be  surprised  at  any- 
thing she  does  you  have  learned  something  by  experi- 
ence. When  she  belongs  to  you,  by  any  sort  of  right, 
you  are  blessed  if  you  occasionally  know  what  she  is  for 
one  hour,  without  caring  a  baubee  what  she  may  be  the 
next  hour. 

In  yesterday's  Observer  it  was  perceived  that  Mr.  H.  The  New 
E.  C.  Bryant  ventured  to  protest  against  women  drinking  °°^a° 
in  public.  Mr.  Bryant  was  wrong,  of  course.  Women 
have  a  perfect  right  to  drink  and  smoke  in  public 
places.  That  is  part  of  crying  away  from  thralldom — 
a  glorious  part  of  emancipation.  Women  drink  in  New 
York  and  in  other  large  cities,  and  in  a  cosmopoHtan 
life  it  is  almost  universally  conceded  that  they  are  privi- 
leged to  smoke.  Why  should  man  alone  be  considered 
entitled  to  the  perfumery  of  a  brandy  and  soda  or  an 
evil-scented  Turkish  cigarette?  Out  on  your  narrow- 
ness, Mr,  Bryant!  Your  staid  old  North  Carolina  sen- 
timent is  a  jangling  note.  We  are  behind  the  times; 
that  is  all.  We  have  not  yet  reached  the  stage  when  we 
concede  that  a  woman  shall  of  right  be  other  than  wom- 
anly, refined — a  dainty,  wholesome  creature  in  a  back- 
ground of  softness  and  reserve.  Thus  we  are  insular, 
indeed.  And  we  shall  be  hidebound  in  prejudice,  it  is 
feared.  For,  with  a  Scotchman's  yielding  stubborn- 
ness, the  woman's  right  to  drink  and  smoke  may  be 
granted — yes,  not  cheerily  or  admiringly,  but  with  con- 
demnation that  can  be  no  more  courteous  than  to  find 
concealment  in  a  careless,  contemptuous  smile.  Let 
the  women  drink  and  smoke,  Mr.  Bryant;  and  then 
[93] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

turn  away  from  them  and  thank  God  if  you  know 
women  who  have  clean  breath  and  clear  eyes. 

A  Coarse  "He  is  the  kind  of  a  man  who  tells  dirty  jokes  to  his 
Husband  -^jfg^"  ^gj^^  ^j^g  observant  resident,  "and  he  belongs  to 
a  type  that  every  one  knows.  It  is  rather  odd  that  a  man 
should  marry  a  young  woman,  and  then  try  to  tarnish 
her  by  the  unnecessary  relation  of  evil  things,  but  such 
accomplishment,  according  to  the  estimate  of  some 
men,  is  one  of  the  good  uses  of  matrimony.  There  are 
a  great  many  men  who  make  a  point  of  telling  their 
wives  the  stories  that  unmarried  men  tell  each  other  in 
a  whisper,  and  thus  the  mfe  becomes  a  receptacle  for 
knowledge  that  strikes  at  her  fineness,  and  is  the  vic- 
tim of  an  intimacy  that  is  neither  sacred  nor  honorable. 
One  doesn't  live  long  before  he  discovers  that  women 
are  apt  to  find  out  pretty  much  everything  there  is  to 
know;  but  no  woman  who  is  worth  while  can  feel 
pleased,  or  interested,  or  amused  when  her  husband 
seeks  to  inject  humor  into  the  household  in  the  form  of 
a  dirty  joke.  How  a  man  shall  comport  himself  toward 
his  wife  is  a  man's  own  affair;  yet  society  everywhere 
is  tainted  by  the  foul  tales  the  men  carry  from  the  street 
to  the  ears  of  their  wives." 

The  Art  of  Three  college  magazines  that  came  to  this  ofhce  re- 
issing  ggj^|-iy  contained  love  stories,  in  which  all  the  heroes, 
in  climax,  asked  the  heroines  if  they  wouldn't  kiss  'em, 
please.  And,  of  course,  they  did.  The  thing  brings  to 
mind  a  discussion  in  this  town  last  week  as  to  whether 
it  is  usual  or  proper  for  a  man  to  ask  the  interesting 

[94] 


WOMAN  AND  HER  WORLD 

psychological  question,  or  whether  it  is  seemly  to  just 
proceed.  The  concensus  of  opinion  seemed  to  be  that 
a  man  ought  to  have  sense  enough,  at  a  certain  juncture, 
to  take  action  without  embarrassing  a  friend  with  a 
useless  question.  There  is  a  poem  about  a  Danish 
youth  who  told  a  girl  that  he  wished  he  had  a  magic 
whistle  that  he  had  heard  about;  and  if  he  had  it  he 
would  blow  a  time  or  two  and  then  she  would  let  him 
kiss  her.  She  demurely  repHed,  in  effect,  that  he  would 
be  foolish  to  whistle  for  what  he  might  take  without 
wasting  breath.  That's  the  idea.  You  can  go  ahead — 
or  you  can't  go  ahead.  But  most  times  when  you  name 
it  you  can't  have  it. 

What  a  wealth  of  chrysanthemums  there  are  here  The  Art  of 
now,  and  how  perfectly  natural  it  is  that  everybody  piowers^ 
should  like  different  flowers  in  a  different  way.  You 
admire  chrysanthemums  as  you  admire  a  large,  well- 
dressed,  showy  sort  of  woman  who  has  a  lot  of  savoir 
faire  and  yet  is  not  specially  interesting.  Chrysanthe- 
mums are  too  masculine ;  and  they  can  be  made  to  look 
apoplectic  and  ashamed  by  the  side  of  a  white  carna- 
tion. Women  ought  to  be  very  careful  about  the  kind 
of  flowers  they  wear.  Some  women  ought  not  to  be 
allowed  to  wear  violets.  They  desecrate  the  tender, 
tremulous  things.  American  Beauty  roses  ought  to  be 
jammed  into  a  centrepiece  and  kept  there.  They  are 
too  sensuous  for  a  refined  woman  to  wear.  Such  color- 
ing is  too  pronounced  in  the  essence  of  Buddha's  heaven. 
But,  seriously  speaking,  if  you  watch  flowers  and  eyes, 
you  will  often  find  lack  of  harmony.  You  can't  explain; 
[95] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

but  you  will  feel  the  jar.  Flowers  rebuke  moods,  too; 
and  temper  or  fretfulness  is  reproached  by  the  rosebud 
below  the  mutinous  hps.  One  woman  in  a  hundred 
knows  how  to  wear  flowers.  Flowers  are  just  tacked  on 
to  the  rest.  The  average  woman  has  an  occasional 
right  to  wear  any  sort  of  a  flower,  but  she  ought  to  pray 
earnestly  when  she  pins  violets  to  her  dress.  For  vio- 
lets are  quite  human,  you  know.  Somewhere  or  other 
there's  a  land  of  quiet,  restful  beauty  where  the  laugh 
of  a  child  is  the  harshest  note  of  joy  and  where  violets, 
forever  clean  and  wet  with  the  dew-mist,  rustle  softly 
in  the  eternal  breath  of  peace — purity. 

The  Art  A  man  who  is  a  sensible  man  was  bothered  over 
^Presents  selecting  a  present  to  send  a  young  woman,  and  many 
men  got  together  and  discussed  the  right  thing  to  do. 
Opinions  varied.  Some  said  jewellery,  but  that  is  too 
dangerous  and  delicate  a  matter  to  argue  about.  Others 
said  books,  and  books  are  always  safe  and  cheap.  It  is 
singular,  however,  that  the  woman  who  is  certain  to 
appreciate  most  highly  your  gift  of  a  book  is  exactly  the 
kind  of  a  person  to  whom  you  would  like  to  give  a  house 
and  lot.  As  a  rule,  books  make  the  greatest  hit  with 
your  aged  relatives,  with  people  who  are  not  hterary,  or 
with  one  particular  woman  who  reads  you  between  the 
lines.  Most  discussions  about  presents  to  a  woman  end 
by  trying  to  decide  whether  she  would  prefer  candy  or 
flowers.  Every  woman  Hkes  candy,  but  the  woman  who 
prefers  flowers  to  candy — and  violets  to  American 
Beauty  roses — is  apt  to  be  the  same  curious  woman  who 
will  set  more  store  by  a  book  than  a  diamond  brooch. 

[96] 


WOMAN  AND  HER  WORLD 

The  woman  to  whom  anything  may  be  given,  in  utter 
safety,  is  the  woman  who  picks  up  a  flower  and  presses 
it  and  keeps  it  forever.  The  most  intimate  possessions 
of  the  most  womanly  woman  show  that  she  is  altogether 
crazy  and  perfectly  delicious. 

Recently  things  have  happened  here  that  make  one  The 
speculate  about  the  quahty  of  human  love.  You  may  iI^q^ 
have  observed  that  things  Uke  that  happen  frequently. 
In  truth,  we  are  always  being  placed  in  the  position  of 
level-headed  onlookers  who  wonder  why  one  person 
loves,  or  doesn't  love,  another  person.  And  generally 
amazement  is  caused  by  the  love  that  continues  to  love. 

In  a  lifetime  each  man  and  each  woman  understands 
how  and  why  any  man  could  love  a  dozen  women,  but 
one  man  and  all  women  cannot  understand  how  or  why 
any  woman  can  love  but  one  man.  If  it  is  The  Other 
Man,  all  men  are  curious  and  puzzled,  while  the  other 
women  are  sympathetic  and  puzzled.  This  is  a  way  of 
saying  that  it  is  much  easier  to  love  a  woman  than  to 
love  a  man;  and  in  a  love  affair  in  which  you  yourself 
are  not  involved,  you  are  given  opportunity  to  be  mys- 
tified. 

*    *    * 

Some  months  ago  this  paper  reprinted  a  smartly 
written  article  that  described  in  detail  the  causes  that 
inspired  love.  It  was  absurd,  of  course.  The  enumera- 
tion of  good  qualities  and  the  lordly  count  of  attributes 
come  after  the  loving,  which,  unguided  by  choice,  may 
be  based  on  the  nice  discrimination  of  a  fool.  If  one 
had  a  chance  to  vivisect  the  smooth,  undisturbed  loves 
7  [97] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  that  send  to  church,  build  up  homes  and  caress  gray 
^^*^S)ve  l^^^^s,  he  would  find  that  in  their  deepest  strength  these 
are  reasonless  and  that  after  all  there  is  not  a  great  deal 
of  difference  between  these  and  the  love  that  is  held  up 
to  the  pubHc  gaze  because  it  lives,  with  a  glad  sigh,  after 
betrayal.  Before  a  man  is  old  he  finds  that  any  love 
that  is  really  worth  while  is  self-sufficient  and  will  five 
beyond  faithlessness,  and  then  he  goes  out  and  has  his 
say  in  the  chattering  world  which  discusses  the  wisdom 
or  unwisdom  of  the  failing. 

*  *     * 

The  greatest  blessing  that  can  be  given  a  man  or  a 
woman  is  a  love  that  will  live  always.  If  there  be  re- 
quital in  kind,  then  two  people  are  to  be  numbered 
among  the  elect,  but  the  falseness  of  the  one  brings  the 
worst  misery  if  it  causes  the  love  of  the  other  to  die. 

*  *    * 

There  was  a  woman  here  and  she  sat  by  the  side  of  a 
man  day  after  day,  and  the  love-Hght  in  her  eyes  never 
faltered,  though  the  world  looked  at  her  and  said  she 
was  foolish  because  the  man  had  been  unfaithful.  Peo- 
ple said,  "How  can  she  still  care  ? "  or  "  She  should  leave 
him!"  but  the  woman  smiled  and  softly  touched  the 
man  again.  What  she  really  thinks  no  one  knows ;  what 
she  feels  thousands  saw,  and  thousands  said  she  was 
unwise  in  not  ceasing  to  care.  The  woman  was  right 
for  two  odd  reasons.  She  could  not  have  stopped  loving 
the  man  if  she  had  wanted  to;  and  if  she  could  have 
lost  her  love,  what  on  earth  would  she  have  had  left? 
She  gave  everything  and  received  nothing,  but  that  was 

[98] 


WOMAN  AND  HER  WORLD 

her  happiness.  There  was  exaltation  in  her  love.  It  The 
stood  alone,  a  bright,  beautiful  thing,  supporting  her,  lotc^^ 
intensifying  her  courage.  She  fed  on  it  eagerly  and  it 
never  failed  to  sustain  her.  It  was  in  the  tremulous 
movement  of  her  hands,  in  the  droop  of  an  eyelid;  it 
was  the  mainstay  of  her  existence.  Suppose  she  had 
been  robbed  of  this.  Why,  if  that  love  had  weakened  or 
lessened  she  would  have  been  infinitely  more  miserable 
than  she  was  over  all  the  terror  and  the  heartache  and 
the  cruel  tales.  To  have  love  to  die  on  one's  hand,  to 
have  ardor  give  way  to  weariness,  to  recognize  the  first 
touch  of  distaste,  to  feel  the  slower  rushing  of  the  blood 
— ah,  'tis  a  curse! 

The  world  said,  ungallantly,  that  the  woman  was  a 
fool,  while  the  woman  continued  to  twist  her  hands  in 
her  lap  and  showed  in  her  eyes  that  she  had  God's 
priceless  gift. 

*    *    * 

People  shudder  over  a  passion  that  is  misplaced,  or 
speak  contemptuously  of  a  love  that  exists  beyond  its 
reward,  but  such  feeHng  is  the  one  human  emotion  that 
deifies,  and  the  real  pity  must  go  to  the  love  that  is 
checked  by  reason,  or  time,  or  any  circumstance  this 
side  the  grave.  If  one  loves  hopelessly,  he  is  forever 
blessed  if  he  loves  in  the  full  strength  of  that  term. 

*    *    * 

And  the  woman,  if  she  had  been  the  lowliest  and  in 
tatters,  was  glorified.    She  was  to  be  envied.    In  its  hold- 
ing of  happiness,  life  is,  at  the  last  analysis,  a  one-man 
or  a  one-woman  proposition,  and  if  God  had  bestowed 
[99] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  on  us  a  feeling  such  as  the  woman  has  He  is  good  even 
^^*^S)ve  ^^  -^^  points  it  at  a  dog,  or  a  man-thing  that  reeks  in  the 
gutter,  or  a  woman-thing  that  speaks  to  shame  her  sex. 
^fi    ^    ^ 

If  Mrs.  Burdick  had  been  a  character  in  a  book  she 
would  have  clenched  her  hands  and  perjured  her  soul, 
if  need  be,  in  her  determination  to  protect  as  far  as  pos- 
sible, at  least,  one  of  the  two  men.  Her  attitude  was  in 
strange  contrast  to  the  testimony  of  a  young  woman  in 
this  State  who  was  the  principal  personage  in  a  murder 
trial  that  occurred  some  years  ago.  She  had  suffered 
more  than  any  one  else  and  had  reason  to  be  vengeful 
toward  one  man  who  was  intimately  connected  with  the 
homicide.  But  when  questioned  about  this  man  she 
said  simply,  "I  love  him  now  better  than  I  love  my 
God."  The  statement  was  not  essential  in  her  evidence 
and  could  have  no  effect  on  the  verdict  of  the  jury,  and 
yet  placed  a  wrecked  life  on  a  high  plane.  The  woman 
made  no  excuse  for  what  she  had  done,  but  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  man  who  had  betrayed  her  and  cared  noth- 
ing for  her,  she  lifted  up  a  dead  white  face  and  dignified 
forever  her  own  ruin.  In  the  pubHc  mind  she  became 
at  once  the  sacrificial  and  best  element  in  the  tragedy, 
and  her  conduct  was  at  once  forgivable  to  a  world 
which  was  not  permitted  to  show  its  forgiveness. 
*    *    * 

Where  naked    tragedies  are  seen,  or  where  the  large 

human    passions    come   into    play,    one    is    curiously 

shocked  by  a  display  of  a  weakness  that  spells  littleness. 

In  a  consideration  of  such  matters  there  is  in  us  a  thing 

[loo] 


WOMAN  AND  HER  WORLD 

that  will  make  us  look  understandingly  and  leniently 
upon  any  emotion  that  is  big,  brave,  and  daring,  no 
matter  how  bad  it  is.  This  is  a  primeval  instinct,  which 
has  fineness  enough  to  abhor  anything  that  crawls  or 
stammers  or  shows  fight  in  the  face  of  a  situation  that 
is  made  or  controlled  by  the  supreme  workings  of  love 
or  hate. 

H*        ^        ^ 

It  is  rather  odd  that  a  woman  should  be  content  to 
Hve  forever  with  a  thing  like  a  man,  isn't  it?  As  one 
grows  older,  he  knows  that  such  living  is  the  chiefest 
blessing,  but  he  is  forced  to  conclude,  without  being 
sceptical  or  unfair,  that  the  woman  gives  more  than  the 
man.  'Tis  an  old  theme;  and  yet  if  you  walk  to  the 
square  and  stand  ten  minutes,  you  will  see  a  woman 
who  is  not  properly  appreciated  by  a  man.  The  injus- 
tice has  so  thrived  that  it  has  become  natural,  or  seems 
natural,  and  yet  the  every-day  fresh  evidence  of  it  kind 
of  hurts,  somehow.  Women — the  oldest  women — re- 
tain girlishness,  and  men  forget  this — forget,  in  their 
ambition  or  business  cares,  that  women  do  not  lose  sen- 
timent or  dainty  fineness  or  wish  for  notice  of  little  bits 
of  feminine  things.  There  is  a  man  and  he  kisses  his 
wife's  hand  and  still  admires  her  feet,  and  she  is  over 
seventy  and  as  happy  as  a  queen. 

The  woman  and  the  child  and  the  man  climbed  on  Hopeless 
the  street  car.     The  woman  had  a  heavily  lined  face  designation 
and  looked  as  if  she  had  suffered  so  much  that  she  had 
gotten  used  to  it.    She  was  very  thin  and  tired-looking, 
but  her  dress  was  clean  and  neat.    The  child,  a  little  girl, 

[lOl] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

also  wore  a  dress  that  was  fresh  and  dainty,  for  all  its 
cheapness.  The  man's  clothes  had  seen  better  days, 
but  they  were  well  patched  and  darned — looked  as  if  a 
deft-fingered  woman  was  continually  bothering  over 
them.  The  man's  nose  was  red  and  his  eyes  were  wat- 
ery. His  mouth  was  very  weak.  He  seemed  restless, 
and  crossed  and  uncrossed  his  legs.  The  conductor 
came  and  stopped  in  front  of  the  man.  The  man  looked 
at  the  woman  and  kept  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  The 
woman  opened  her  purse  and  after  close  search  pro- 
duced a  quarter.  The  conductor  took  the  silver  and 
held  out  ten  cents.  Hurriedly  the  man  reached  out  and 
grabbed  the  dime.  His  watery  eyes  glistened.  He 
turned  his  face  away  when  the  woman  looked  at  him. 
Hopeless  resignation  dulled  the  woman's  eyes.  Her 
under  lip  trembled. 

Happiness  In  the  western  part  of  this  State  there  was  a  woman 
Madhouse  ^^^  ^^^  ^^^  ^  good  woman.  She  married  when  she  was 
young  and  she  had  many  children;  and  she  nursed  and 
cooked  and  stinted  and  kept  her  nose  to  the  grindstone 
for  thirty  years  or  more.  She  had,  to  begin  with,  senti- 
mental eyes  and  an  imaginative  temperament ;  but  her 
sole  recreation  during  the  best  years  of  her  life  was  rid- 
ing four  miles  to  church  every  Sunday  morning,  and 
her  greatest  social  amusement  consisted  in  feeding  the 
preacher  who  always  wore  a  goose-quill  tooth  pick. 
Her  husband  died ;  her  children  grew  up  and  married ; 
and  she,  uncertain  in  her  head,  was  taken  to  a  hospital 
for  those  who  be  mentally  unwell.  And  she  found  Para- 
dise on  earth.  She  foregathered  with  a  lot  of  other  old 
[102] 


WOMAN  AND  HER  WORLD 

ladies  who  wore  their  Sunday  clothes  all  the  time;  sat 
in  sunshiny  corners  and  knitted;  talked  baby  lore  and 
the  making  of  pies ;  did  all  things  in  amity  and  labored 
not  at  all.  At  length  she,  too,  was  cured  and  sent  away 
— back  to  the  half -deserted  home  and  the  ever-present 
grind.  But  the  memory  of  the  other  old  ladies  with 
their  dehghtful  illusions  and  their  embroidery,  and  the 
rocking  chair  close  to  the  geranium  pots,  lingered  with 
her  and  she  wept  inconsolably.  And  she,  nine  times  a 
mother  and  a  woman  of  consequence  in  the  work-a-day 
world,  made  her  people  take  her  back  to  the  madhouse. 
When  the  heavy  doors  had  closed  behind  her,  she  went 
down  the  long  corridor  with  a  girlish  flush  on  her  cheek 
and  a  bright  light  in  her  eyes.  For  in  the  little  group 
that  plied  needles  at  the  end  of  the  narrow  carpeted 
lane  she  had  found  the  only  rest  and  peace  she  had 
ever  known. 

The  oldest  woman  in  town  died  the  other  day.  She  The  Oldest 
died  happily.  She  had  hved  happily — had  been  "the  ^°°^^ 
mother  of  a  church,"  and  had  left  undone  nothing  in 
her  small  sphere  of  living.  But  there  is  no  record  of 
her  having  been  proud  of  being  the  oldest  woman.  The 
only  "oldest"  persons  who  are  proud  of  their  lot  are 
those  who  live  in  far-away  places  and  hold  corn  cob 
pipes  between  aged  gums.  For  there's  pathos  here — 
gaunt,  grim  solitude.  To  stand  bowed,  enfeebled 
among  a  strange  generation — 'tis  pitiful,  no  matter  if 
one's  own  flesh  and  blood  are  close  by  to  lend  support. 
The  oldest  person!  .  .  .  The  sun  is  almost  down  and 
there  is  chilUness  in  the  atmosphere.    The  eyes  rest  on 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

a  sea  of  graves.  Buried  there  are  all  those  who  could 
understand.  Did  you  ever  know  the  oldest  person? 
Then  you  knew  one  who  found  happiness  only  in  mem- 
ory. If  the  present  brings  peace  and  rest,  the  present 
can  do  no  more. 

The  "Women,  you  know,"  said  the  observant  man, 
S^an^Old  "iiever  grow  old  at  heart,  though  the  world  forces  them 
Woman  to  think  they  are  old.  They  become  dispirited  through 
suffering,  or  embittered  through  disappointment,  or 
very,  very  tired  through  general  causes,  and  they  wear 
the  mantle  of  age  gracefully  or  unprettily,  but  the  spirit 
of  youthfulness  remains  in  the  normal  woman  until  she 
dies.  There  came  to  the  square  the  other  day  an  oldish 
lady,  and,  as  some  one  spoke  to  her,  her  face  glowed 
for  a  fleeting  moment  with  a  girhsh  flush.  The  place 
seemed  illumined.  The  light  on  her  face  adorned,  yet 
seemed  to  defy,  the  white  hair  and  the  marks  of  care 
and  time,  and  it  was  as  triumphantly  young  as  the 
quick  leap  of  a  schoolgirl's  heart.  In  the  transient  ex- 
pression were  kindness,  understanding,  sympathy. 
.  .  .  The  aged  woman  tottered  to  her  car;  and  I  be- 
gan wondering  about  mankind's  universal  stupidity 
and  carelessness.  Old  ladies  are  too  often  shelved. 
People  are  good  to  them  and  entertain  them  in  the  best 
company  room  and  wait  on  'em  respectfully;  but 
there's  not  enough  love  and  appreciation  for  the  old 
lady.  Why,  an  old  woman  is  the  epitome  of  tenderness. 
She  can  soothe  the  hard,  dry  grief  of  manhood  and 
prattle  gleefully  with  a  child.  She  is  filled  with  a  wealth 
of  feeling  and  has  exhausted  no  emotion.  The  touch 
[104] 


WOMAN  AND  HER  WORLD 

of  her  fragile  hand  is  a  blessing  and  caress.    If  right 
were  right,  men  could  but  make  love  to  old  ladies." 

Dying  must  be  pretty  hard  when  one  can't  reach  out  The  Last 
his  hand  and  touch  a  woman.  Each  life  is  apt  to  be  a  ^°"^^ 
solitary,  misunderstood  thing;  and  all,  or  the  best  of, 
understanding  and  comfort  can  only  come  just  through 
a  woman.  A  man,  in  a  man's  fine  strength,  may  live 
as  a  man  pleases,  but  when  the  great  darkness  of  the 
Unknown  is  suffocating  his  heart  .  .  .  there  should  be 
a  woman  who  has  the  right — and  a  love  of  her  right — 
to  come  close  and  closer  and  speak  in  a  low  voice  and 
gently.  Possibly  this  may  seem  a  plea  for  the  good  use 
of  matrimony.  It  is  immediately  mindful  of  how  easy 
it  would  be  to  die  if  a  man's  mother  were  with  him.  For 
apart  from  a  mother's  love,  the  sureness  of  love  is  acci- 
dental, or  incidental,  or  of  uncertain  tenure. 

Fallen  women!  These  are  the  human  beings  that  the  Fallen 
Florence  Crittenton  Mission  wishes  to  save  by  estab-  '^^^°- 
lishing  a  rescue  home  in  this  city.  The  charity  under- 
takes a  task  that  is  desperately  hard,  for  since  man  was 
born  he  has  placed  furthest  from  redemption  women 
who  have  sinned.  This  is  one  of  the  just-so  things,  and 
we  can't  reason  about  it  very  clearly.  Men  do  not  be- 
come "fallen,"  and  their  degradation  is  never  so  com- 
plete that  they  cannot  be  pulled  back  into  the  esteem 
of  their  fellow  men.  All  ages  have  wrestled  over  the 
problem,  and  have  inveighed  against  the  unfairness  that 
has  been  shown  women,  but  the  matter  remains  as  it 
was  in  the  days  of  the  Old  Testament.  A  man  may  de- 
[105] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Fallen  file  himself  and  yet  live  to  make  his  fellows  remember 
Women  ^^-^y  his  virtues,  but  a  v^oman  who  has  cheapened  her- 
self is  blessed  beyond  hope  if  she  can  escape,  even  after 
death,  the  taint  of  an  unmentionable  name.  This  is  the 
bitter,  merciless  judgment  of  the  world,  and  it  will  be 
the  judgment  of  the  world  till  the  world  is  dead. 

*     *     * 

All  of  you  have  seen  the  distinction  that  is  made  be- 
tween the  man  and  the  woman,  and  though  you  may 
protest,  you  still  continue  to  assist  all  people  in  making 
the  distinction.  Two  persons — a  brother  and  a  sister — 
left  a  little  home  in  the  country  not  a  great  distance 
from  here.  The  woman  was  caught  in  the  vortex  and 
passed  from  hand  to  hand,  but  the  man  did  worse  than 
she,  though,  by  his  own  count  and  in  the  opinion  of 
those  who  knew  him  best,  this  was  not  held  to  be  so. 
He  may  return — as  he  does  return — to  that  simple 
home,  and  in  his  welcome  there  is  never  a  doubt,  ques- 
tion, or  reproach.  He  looks  into  his  mother's  eyes  and 
he  faces  the  preacher  at  church,  but  there  is  no  trouble 
in  his  heart  and  no  sign  of  guilt  on  his  countenance. 
But  the  sister  will  never  go  back  into  that  house,  and, 
being  typical  of  her  kind,  she  will  never  ask  to  be  taken 
back.  In  God's  eyes  she  has  sinned  less  than  her  broth- 
er, but  her  father  and  her  mother  will  never  forgive  her, 
and,  worse  than  all,  she  will  never  forgive  herself.  She 
belongs  to  that  class  the  rescue  work  is  trying  to  touch 
— a  class  that  may  be  characterized  in  pity,  not  criti- 
cism, as  forsaken,  hunted,  haunted,  restless,  wretched, 
hopeless. 

[io6] 


WOMAN  AND  HER  WORLD 

A  woman  is  a  finer  and  a  more  precious  thing  than  a 
man.  She  feels  this  without  reasoning  about  it,  and 
the  curse  of  utter  blackness  comes  when  she  loses  her 
self-respect.  She  goes  down  and  down,  while  everybody 
and  everything  fight  against  her,  and  she  never  fights 
for  self-recovery.  And  men  nag  her  with  a  superb 
scorn.  For  all  men  are  Pharisees  with  women.  We 
hold  them  to  strict  account  for  every  misdeed  and  for- 
give them  nothing — bring  them  to  infamy  and,  laugh- 
ing, leave  them  there.  We  do  this  without  apology  and 
we  will  never  apologize,  for  in  this  matter  it  is  our  nat- 
ural bent  to  be  as  remorseless  as  the  grave  and  to  declare 
that  a  woman  who  sins  is  lost  through  eternity. 

On  a  dreary,  rainy  night  like  this  the  reporter  who  The  Girl_ 
saw  the  letter  wonders  what  became  of  the  brown-  j^ress 
haired  girl  in  a  white  dress  who  ran  away  from  home  a 
year  ago,  came  to  this  city,  and  then  disappeared.  You 
see,  her  mother  said  she  was  a  slender  little  girl  with  blue 
eyes  and  was  very  ignorant  of  the  world  and  its  tempta- 
tions. And  a  girl  like  that  ought  to  be  found  and  taken 
back  to  her  home.  But  she  was  not  found,  and  they've 
no  idea  where  she  is.  She  had  wavy,  soft  brown  hair 
.  .  .  and  a  clean,  white  dress.  And  she  must  have  had 
innocence  in  her  eyes.  The  reporter  can't  forget  the 
picture  and  he  is  wondering  if  the  girl  can  forget  it.  And 
if  she  remembers  it,  does  memory — hurt  ?  .  .  .  A  clean, 
white  dress;  and  it  is  raining  outside,  and  rain  and 
other  things  defile — white.  Ah,  the  pathos!  A  maiden 
walked  forth  into  a  land  filled  with  strangers,  and  to  a 
maiden  a  stranger's  touch  may  be  rude.  And  did  the 
[107] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

world  help  to  keep  the  white  dress  clean  ?  The  vainless 
wonder!  Yet  'tis  raining  bitter  hard  and  there  is 
a  great  wet  gloom.  .  .  .  Where  is  the  mother's  girl 
in  the  dark — this  maiden  that  went  out  clean  and 
white? 

The  Rescue  So  the  rescue  home  has  assumed  a  task  that  will  re- 
°^®  quire  all  of  fortitude  and  dehcacy,  and  it  deserves  the 
large  encouragement  that  should  support  a  heroic 
cause.  Among  the  unfortunates  that  the  mission  will 
endeavor  to  reform  there  are  those  who  will  die  with 
the  paint  on  their  faces,  and  alone,  as  dogs  die.  But 
there  are  others  who  have  not  lost  good  or  womanli- 
ness, and  they  are  sick  at  heart  with  an  existence  that 
now  offers  no  release  from  bondage.  They  have  found 
that  in  the  long  run  their  way  is  a  disordered  way  that 
will  permit  naught  of  pleasure,  naught  of  consolation, 
naught  of  heartsease ;  and  they  would  be  clean  because 
the  wish  for  cleanness  dies  hard  in  a  woman.  But 
they  are  suspicious  by  training  and  sensitive  beyond 
their  rights,  and  they  must  be  dealt  with  carefully.  If 
you  would  reform  a  man  you  pat  him  on  the  back  and 
make  him  sit  at  your  table ;  but  you  would  visit  a  fallen 
woman  secretly,  and  you  would  consider  yourself  good 
if  you  kept  reproach  and  lashing  pity  from  showing  in 
your  eyes.  Adopt  a  new  plan  here  if  you  wish  to  do  the 
right,  and  give  to  the  unfortunates  a  kindness  that  does 
not  patronize  and  a  sympathy  that  is  not  feigned.  They 
will  need,  not  tracts,  but  gentleness,  and  not  the 
preached  painting  of  their  scarlet  sins,  but  a  tender,  in- 
sistent holding  by  the  hand  and  a  soft  word  of  under- 
[io8] 


WOMAN  AND  HER  WORLD 

standing.    If  you  are  going  to  do  this  hazardous  thing,  The  Rescue 
then,  in  God's  name,  go  the  Hmit  in  love.  Home 

*     *     * 

How  would  it  do  to  make  the  proposed  rescue  home 
a  place  for  the  prevention,  rather  than  a  cure,  for  the 
saddest  evil  in  the  world  ?  The  home  proposes  to  pluck 
girls  from  an  abyss.  Why  not  make  it  lift  a  hand  to 
keep  them  out  of  it?  That  little  girl  who  came  here 
from  Reidsville  last  week,  and  went  hellward  in  Springs' 
Alley,  was  hungry.  She  hadn't  a  cent  of  money.  She 
was  in  a  strange  place ;  she  was  young,  healthy,  lonely 
and — hungry.  She  is  now  in  Springs'  Alley,  but  suppose 
she  had  known  that  there  was  some  place  she  could  go 
to  and  be  cared  for  till  she  got  work  to  do  ?  Last  year 
a  "blue-eyed  girl,  wearing  a  clean,  white  dress,"  left 
her  home  in  Cleveland  County  and  came  here — alone. 
She  knew  not  sin.  But  she  was  penniless,  and  in  the 
darkened  city  there  was  welcome  to  her  only  from  foul- 
mouthed  hags  who  trade  in  human  souls.  And  so  the 
child  stumbled  on  into  the  night,  and  her  blue  eyes  be- 
came dulled  and  her  white  dress  was  besmirched.  Sup- 
pose— but  why  suppose  ?  You  know  the  condition  that 
exists.  Continually  there  come  to  this  town  young  girls 
who  seek  work.  They  are  helpless,  ignorant,  unpro- 
tected. What  salvation  might  come  if  they  knew  that 
when  temptation  is  hardest  they  can  flee  to  a  house  of 
refuge  that  is  gentle  and  shames  not  ?  It  is  all  right  to 
drag  the  unfortunates  from  their  painted  misery,  but  is 
it  not  better  to  fight  for  the  clear-eyed  children  who  do 
not  want  to  fall,  yet  must  fall  ? 
[109] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  Agony  "  Emma  Reese,  the  girl  who  swallowed  crushed  glass, 
of  a  ^°^^^  is  having  convulsions,  and,  they  say,  she  is  about  to  die," 
said  Sergeant  Farrington  to  an  Observer  reporter  last 
night  at  ten  o'clock.  "I  am  going  to  get  a  doctor  and 
go  out  to  see  her.  Do  you  wish  to  go?"  And  the  re- 
porter, who  did  not  wish  to  go,  went. 

Dr.  F.  O.  Hawley,  the  city  physician,  accompanied 
the  sergeant  and  the  reporter.  Farrington  had  'phoned 
another  physician,  but  the  latter  said: 

"It's  no  use.  There  is  nothing  to  do  but  to  give  her 
morphine."  But  Farrington,  as  big-hearted  a  man  as 
lived,  was  not  easy  in  his  mind  until  he  had  brought 
the  physician  to  the  side  of  the  suffering  girl. 

The  carriage  stopped  in  front  of  a  small  house  on 
Middle  Street.  Several  men  stood  on  the  porch  and 
peered  into  an  open  door  and  an  open  window.  Close 
to  the  window  there  was  a  bed,  on  which  lay  a  young 
girl  whose  white,  drawn  face  was  framed  in  dark,  dis- 
hevelled hair. 

"Will  she  die?"  the  reporter  had  asked. 

"If  she  Hves  it  will  be  a  miracle,"  replied  Dr.  Haw- 
ley. 

And  such  death — such  dying  1  The  beggars,  the  low- 
liest who  live  in  all  the  earth,  are  given  the  right  to  at 
least  die  with  a  certain  dignity ;  but  this  child  is  passing 
within  sound  of  the  ribald  jest,  under  the  curious  scru- 
tiny of  bold  eyes — passing  under  the  touch  of  the 
painted  women. 

The  entrance  of  the  physician,  the  sergeant  of  police, 
and  the  reporter  crowded  the  small  room.  Four  or  five 
men  walked  to  and  fro  at  will.  They  did  never  remove 
[iioj 


WOMAN  AND  HER  WORLD 

their  hats.    Why  should  they  ?    The  room  was  man's  The  Agony 
common  property,  and  here  was  only  an  outcast  who  q^  Young 
was  stricken.    The  women  came  in  kindness,  in  minis- 
tration.   They  are  such  as  one  knows  them  to  be — no 
better  than  they  should  be;   guised  as  women,  yet  not 
fashioned  to  move  by  death  beds. 

Privacy!  The  room  was  open  to  the  world.  The 
light  from  the  big  lamp  on  the  bureau  gleamed  out  into 
the  night  and  made  a  beacon,  beckoning  all  men  who 
wandered  stealthily  by  night  to  come  quickly  and  see 
the  child  die.  There  was  no  hand  to  restrain.  Here  was 
a  rare  sight,  a  man's  plaything — a  creature  that  had 
been  rudely  broken  at  life's  wheel.  So!  The  spectacle 
is  inviting.  'Tis  not  every  day  that  a  young  girl  is  per- 
mitted to  die  under  the  full,  strong  glare  of  a  morbid 
public. 

Chief  of  Pohce  Irwin  came  to  the  scene  and  cried 
against  the  disgrace  of  the  thing.  Thrice  before  he 
had  protested,  but  to  no  avail.  When  he  left  the  house 
the  leering  tribe  crept  back  and  crouched  and  waited 
like  so  many  ghouls. 

The  girl  was  indifferent.  The  spasm  of  agony  had 
passed  under  the  morphine  and  she  looked  out  listlessly 
from  tired  eyes.  A  dozen  people  jabbered  at  once  and 
she  did  not  Hsten. 

Crossness — if  there  had  been  grossness — had  gone 
from  a  face  that  was  purified. by  pain.  "I  am  not  eigh- 
teen, but  sixteen,  years  old,"  she  said,  and  she  seemed 
hardly  so  old.  As  her  lithe  young  body  was  outstretched 
to  find  anxious  ease,  she  seemed  so  pitifully  young.  In 
the  entreaty  in  the  dark  eyes,  in  the  wearied  expression 
[III] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  Agony  of  the  face,  and  in  the  clean,  fresh,  white  that  encom- 
^  G^f  passed  her,  one  found  a  spirituelle  quahty,  and  then 
lifted  his  eyes  to  see  the  sensuahsm  that  suffocated  the 
room. 

For  a  little  while  the  girl  was  unnoticed  except  by  the 
reporter.  Did  she  wish  to  talk  ?  Yes ;  that  might  ease 
her.     Then 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  had  not  a  friend  in  the  world,"  was  the 
reply. 

"You  see,"  she  continued,  "I  was  not  suited  for  the 
life  I  was  leading,  I  came  here  from  Asheville,  three 
months  ago,  to  work  in  a  cotton  mill.  I  did  not  work  in 
the  mill  long.  After  that — after  I  came  here  I  was  al- 
ways unhappy." 

She  paused,  and  a  perfumed  young  girl  with  curled 
hair  who  came  to  lie  on  the  side  of  the  bed  leaned  over 
and  said  that  Emma  must  not  talk  if  it  hurt.  But 
Emma  Reese  said  she  wanted  to  talk. 

"Emma  Williams,  the  woman  that  I  live  with  here, 
went  to  Spartanburg,"  she  said,  "and  I  was  all  alone. 
I  had  no  money;  not  a  Uving  person  to  whom  I  could 
go  about  anything.  Emma  had  gotten  into  trouble,  and 
because  of  that  the  police  said  I  must  leave  town.  There 
was  nowhere  for  me  to  go.  There  was  nothing  for  me  to 
do  but  to  die.  Relatives  ?  Yes,  I  have  a  mother  living 
somewhere — in  Dillsboro,  I  think,  but  I  have  not  heard 
from  her  in  a  long  time, 

"  The  broken  glass  ?  Why,  I  took  that  because  I  had 
nothing  else  to  kill  myself  with.  I  tried  to  borrow  some 
morphine  or  laudanum,  but  everybody  seemed  to  know 

[112] 


WOMAN  AND  HER  WORLD 

what  I  wanted  with  it  and  they  wouldn't  let  me  have  it.  The  Agony 
So  I  came  home  and  broke  a  bottle  into  little  pieces  and  qj3  Young 
swallowed  the  cracked  glass  in  a  spoon.     Oh,  but  I 
wanted  to  die  and  die  quick.    I  didn't  know  that  the 
glass  would  be  like  it  is ;  I  thought  I  would  die  before 
night.    And  here 

"I  don't  want  to  die  now.  I  say,  I  want  to  live — so. 
But  I  suppose  I  can't.  If  I  could  only  take  back  that 
— glass.  But,  I  say,  what  was  there  for  me  to  do.  I 
was  so  miserable.  And  there  was  no  place  for  me  to  go. 
And  I  didn't  have  a  single  friend  in  the  world." 

There  was  nothing  for  the  doctor  to  do?  "I  was  so 
miserable."  And  there  was  more  morphine.  'Tis  a  rest- 
less game  of  wait.  Glass  is  not  quick,  but  sure  and  in- 
sidious in  its  methods.  For  several  hours  after  Emma 
Reese  swallowed  the  contents  of  the  spoon  she  felt  but 
httle  inconvenience,  but  then  pain  came  in  quick,  sharp 
tugs  and  gnawed  fiercely. 

"Her  condition  to-day  is  worse  than  it  was  yester- 
day," said  Dr.  Hawley.  "I  see  not  the  least  sign  of 
hope  for  her." 

To-day  an  effort  will  be  made  to  take  the  girl  to  one 
of  the  local  hospitals.  In  mercy  she  should  be  taken 
there.  If  she  lives  by  any  unhoped-for  chance,  let  her 
recover  in  a  healthy  atmosphere;  if  she  dies,  in  pity's 
name,  don't  let  her  last  glance  rest  on  the  signs  and  the 
habiliments  of  the  painted  women. 

For  no  matter  what  she  was,  she  is  now  but  a  child — 
a  poor  young  girl  who  is  wretched  and  repentant. 

"That  is  a  sad  case,"  said  the  chief  of  police,  as  he 
was  returning  from  the  house.    "Three  weeks  ago  that 

8  [113] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  Agony  girl  told  Officer  Shields  that  she  wanted  to  reform,  and 
of  a  Young  2^g]^g(j  f  Qj.  iielp.  The  matter  was  taken  up  by  Recorder 
Shannonhouse,  and  I  sent  word  that  I  would  give  the 
girl  a  raihoad  ticket  to  get  out  of  town.  We  would  have 
helped  her  all  we  could ;  but  in  a  few  days  Emma  Wil- 
liams got  into  trouble,  and  she  and  Emma  Reese,  who 
was  a  witness  in  the  case,  were  warned  to  leave  town. 
She  took  the  glass  on  the  day  she  had  to  leave. 

"The  law  does  not  protect  fallen  women,  chief?" 

"No,"  rephed  the  chief  of  poUce,  who,  as  the  reporter 
knew,  is  always  ready  to  aid  the  unfortunates  in  any 
possible  manner. 

"We  learn  some  terrible  things,"  added  Chief  Irwin. 
"  Two  nights  ago  a  white  girl  from  Reids\dlle,  who  was 
so  young  that  she  wore  short  dresses,  came  to  a  house 
in  Springs'  Alley.  The  old  woman  in  charge  refused 
her  admission,  and  'phoned  to  me.  I  have  tried  to  find 
that  child,  but  I  can't.  She  is  lost  somewhere  in  Springs' 
Alley." 

Lost  in  Springs'  Alley. 

Lost  in  hell! 


[114 1 


CHAPTER  VI 


CHILDREN 


Swathed  in  clothes  enough  to  suffocate  him,  and  A  Baby's 
handled  as  carefully  as  if  he  had  been  the  only  jellyfish  ^^* 
in  the  world,  a  new  baby  was  carried  down  the  steps  the 
other  day  and  given  his  first  view  of  the  world.  A  spec- 
tator, who  realized  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  an 
awe-inspiring  proposition,  took  careful  note  of  the  sur- 
roundings. The  only  things  in  sight  of  the  baby  after 
he  came  into  the  open  were  a  small  negro  boy  leading  a 
poor  cow,  a  homely  man  with  a  red  nose,  a  young 
woman  with  an  ill-fitting  skirt,  the  iceman,  a  country 
dog,  and  a  lot  of  trees  covered  with  dead,  yellow  leaves. 
And  the  baby  cried.  Of  course  he  cried.  He  and  the 
tired  woman  with  the  love-lighted  eyes  had  been  staying 
in  there  together  having  such  a  dreamy,  comfy  time 
talking  and  crooning  to  each  other ;  and  he  had  build ed 
a  grand  vision  of  the  outside,  sunshiny  place  where  the 
birds  sang  and  flowers  wafted  faint  perfumery.  And 
here  were  the  nose,  the  dog,  and  the  iceman.  Certainly 
he  was  disappointed  and  wept  and  wanted  to  go  back 
and  be  with  the  low-voiced,  tired  woman.  He  knew 
that  he  hadn't  been  treated  fairly,  and  he  rightly  argued 
that  when  a  baby  leaves  the  dark  room  for  the  first 
time  he  should  enjoy  a  bigger  celebration  than  any 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

debutante.  There  should  be  only  beautiful  people  on 
the  premises,  and  a  wealth  of  flowers,  and  somebody 
should  sing  a  Christmas  carol.  The  formal  introduc- 
tion to  the  new  kingdom  where  he  must  live  and  love 
and  suffer,  and  suffer  and  love  and  Hve  and  die  should 
be  triumphant  and  gladsome.  For,  after  all,  who  can 
gauge  the  importance  of  the  first  world-impression  on 
the  tiny  soul — ^just  out  from  Heaven  and  soon  to  creep 
out  from  the  love-lighted  eyes  ? 

A  Little      A  young  woman  of  four  years  of  age  ran  away  from 
Runaway  j^^j.  j^^j^g  jj^  ^j^jg  ^^jj-y  \^^^  week.    She  went  out  into  the 

world  and  stayed  for  a  long  time — for  her — and  when 
she  was  found  at  last  and  brought  back  to  her  home  she 
had  nothing  to  regret,  and  her  memories  were  fraught 
only  with  big  adventure  and  innocent  pleasure.  The 
police  had  a  record  about  a  child  lost,  and  afterward 
a  child  found,  and  there  was  some  mention  in  the  paper 
about  the  gladness  of  her  parents ;  and  that  is  all  there 
was  of  this  wonderful  episode. 
*    *    * 

Even  a  very  beautiful  poem,  with  all  the  right  words 
in  the  right  place,  could  hardly  do  justice  to  the  perfect 
experience  of  this  little  woman.  Before  she  left  home 
her  world  had  been  Hmited  to  her  nurse,  her  people,  her 
toys,  and  a  dozen  or  so  folk  who  took  liberties  with  her 
hair  and  kissed  her  without  being  asked  to  do  so.  So 
the  Httle  maid  mutinied  within  herself  and  sighed  for 
the  larger  freedom  which,  she  imagined,  began  at  the 
far  corner  of  the  opposite  block.  One  day — and  it  was 
a  very  fresh  and  dehghtful  day,  with  plenty  of  sunshine 
[ii6] 


CHILDREN 

— she  waited  till  the  watchers  drowsed,  and  then  she  A  Little 
wandered  into  the  unknown  place.     Soon  the  mystic  ^'^"^^^y 
corner  was  passed,  and  the  maiden  was  a  stranger  in  a 
strange  land. 

*  *    * 

There  is  no  reproach  or  disappointment  to  mar  the 
travels  of  the  little  lady.  She  was  very  tiny,  but  so  con- 
fident and  fearless  in  her  bearing  that  no  one  molested 
her  or  asked  her  why  or  whither  she  journeyed.  Strange 
men  and  women,  horses,  cows,  dogs,  children — she 
passed  them  all,  gaining  new  impressions  at  every  step. 
She  saw  no  evil,  no  unhappiness  as  she  hurried  out  into 
the  mysterious  world.  No  one  held  out  a  detaining 
hand;  she  had  all  liberty,  and  this  never  meant  any- 
thing less  than  peace,  contentment,  and,  maybe,  the 

fulfillment  of  ideals. 

*  *    * 

After  the  little  maid  had  passed  through  the  world 
and  its  madding  crowd,  it  is  altogether  seemly  that  her 
journey  should  have  ended  by  the  side  of  a  brook.  She 
was  content  to  stop  here  where  there  were  restfulness 
and  quiet  save  for  the  murmur  of  the  little  river.  She 
was  only  a  mile  from  home.  In  her  own  mind  the  dis- 
tance might  have  been  a  million  miles  and  a  lifetime. 
And  she  had  nothing  to  regret.  She  had  seen  all  that 
there  was  to  be  seen  and  there  had  been  no  disillusion- 
ment. 

*  *    * 

The  return  home — the  greatest  of  all  tests — brought 
no  fear,  left  nothing  in  completion  of  joy.    Her  faith  in 
the  world  was  so  simple  and  genuine  that,  after  she  had 
[117] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

become  a  little  tired,  she  was  not  at  all  surprised  when 
a  man  with  a  kindly  face  came  to  her,  lifted  her  in  his 
arms  and  carried  her  to  her  people.  They  wept  in  their 
gladness,  but  the  maiden's  eyes  were  bright  and  clear. 
She  was  so  fresh  to  life  that  her  own  mystery -ideas  were 
not  clear,  and  certainly  could  not  be  analyzed ;  but  she 
must  have  felt  that  she  had  exhausted  all  of  living  and 
adventure — and  all  was  good. 


Aye,  child,  you  have  accomplished  the  impossible. 
You  went  out,  saw  all  that  you  cared  to  see,  were  not 
tempted  to  look  in  dark  places — and  came  back  with 
fearless  eyes,  unscarred,  not  embittered,  unashamed. 
Oh,  little  girl,  what  a  lesson  you  teach ! 

New-fangled  They've  stopped  rocking  the  baby  now,  and  before  he 
About  ^^  ^^*^  years  old  he  is  taught  to  say  isn't  instead  of  ain't. 
Babies  This  is  part  of  the  kindergarten  system  which  is  death 
to  goo-goo  talk,  and  teaches  a  child  to  parse  with  blocks 
of  wood  and  toy  horses  before  he  has  seen  five  sum- 
mers. The  old-fashioned,  fat,  clumsy  baby  who  went 
to  sleep  while  he  was  being  tossed  from  one  end  of  the 
room  to  the  other  in  the  hereditary  cradle,  and  awoke 
to  stumble  around  and  mumble,  unrebuked,  a  language 
of  his  own — that  baby  is  a  back  number. 

*     *     * 

They  are  saying  nowadays  that  rocking  a  baby  is  not 
at  all  good  for  him,  and  if  you  keep  on  rocking  him  his 
brains  will  get  scrambly  and  he  will  become  addle-pated. 
[ii8J 


CHILDREN 

The  modern  baby,  recently  imported,  is  placed  in  a  sta-  Newfangled 
tionary  basket,  just  as  if  he  were  a  newly  purchased  Abouf^ 
Maltese  cat ;  and  no  matter  how  dear  he  may  look  when  Babies 
he  'blinks  his  eyes  to  sneeze,  or  puts  his  pink  toe  in  his 
mouth,  nobody  ever  thinks  of  leaning  over  him  and 
telling  him  he  is  a  tootsie-wootsie.  He  has  three-sylla- 
ble words  pounded  at  him  while  he  is  still  breathing  out 
of  the  top  of  his  head  and  before  he  has  any  backbone 
at  all.  Of  course  this  will  breed  pride,  a  disinclination 
to  put  everything  that  he  sees  in  his  mouth,  and  an  early 
aversion  to  mud  pies.  He  is  up  against  an  entirely  new 
condition.  All,  or  nearly  all,  the  old  black  mammies  are 
dead;  the  young  nurses  have  a  grammar  school  educa- 
tion, and  his  mother  is  a  member  of  a  latter-day  cult 
which  treats  an  infant  as  if  he  were  a  rational  human 
being. 

*     *     * 

The  subject  is  not  laughable.  You  go  out  on  the 
streets  any  day  and  you'll  see  a  lot  of  babies  that  look 
as  if  they  had  lived  in  Boston  before  they  were  born. 
They  are  so  proper  and  knowing-looking.  And  if  you 
forget  yourself  and  indulge  in  any  of  the  simpering, 
minus-g  talk  that  soothed  you  when  you  first  imbibed 
out  of  the  neck  of  a  bottle,  you  are  apt  to  get  a  dignified, 
reproachful  look  that  will  chill  you  to  your  marrow. 
The  modern  baby  is  really  very  fearsome.  Nobody  ever 
sings  Him  a  foolish  old  plantation  ditty ;  nobody  ever 
edifies  Him  by  crying  boo-ah,  boo!  Nobody  even  lets 
Him  endeavor  to  pull  the  tail  out  of  a  cat  or  toddle 
around  with  a  face  that  is  sweet  beyond  his  ears  and 
years. 

[119] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  future  only  can  declare  the  wisdom  or  unwis- 
dom of  the  new  plan.  "  Manhood  is  but  the  dusty  ware- 
room  where  are  stored  life's  broken  dreams;"  and  the 
journey  that  began  with  a  fast,  jerky  ride  in  a  cradle, 
ended  on  the  first  summer  day  that  brought  unused 
shoes  to  young  feet,  and  included  unhmited  dirt  and 
goo-goo  speech,  is  the  only  period  in  Hfe  that  is  allowed 
to  be  perfect. 

Miss  Speaking  of  juvenile  things,  have  you  read  the  chil- 
as  am  ^^.^^  stories  of  Miss  Josephine  Dodge  Daskam,  the 
most  dehghtful  woman  writer  in  America?  In  a  vol- 
ume entitled  "The  Madness  of  Philip,"  and  containing 
a  number  of  short  stories,  she  exposes  the  heart  of  a 
child,  or  the  hearts  of  many  children.  In  all  literature 
the  book  has  no  hkeness.  The  majority  of  authors 
stoop  to  write  about  children,  treat  them  in  a  patroniz- 
ing, unknowing  sort  of  way.  But  Miss  Daskam  shows 
the  inner  emotions  of  a  child's  soul,  and  her  words  ring 
true.  She  is  anything  else  but  conventional;  but  her 
art  is  a  delicate,  beautiful  reahsm.  And  the  true  picture 
of  a  child  is  always  refreshing. 

"Mother-  It  was  Miss  Daskam,  by  the  way,  who  wrote  that 
great,  fierce  poem,  "Motherhood,"  which  appeared  in 
Scribner's  last  year,  and  which  has  been  reproduced  in 
this  paper,  but  is  reprinted  here  because  it  is  the  most 
beautiful  thing  of  its  kind  that  was  ever  written. 

"The  night  throbs  on,  but  let  me  pray,  dear  Lord! 
Brush  off  his  name  a  moment  from  my  mouth. 
To  Thee  mine  eyes  would  turn,  but  they  go  back, 
[I20] 


CHILDREN 

Back  to  my  arm  beside  me  where  he  lay — 
So  little,  Lord,  so  little  and  so  warm  ? 

I  cannot  think  that  Thou  had'st  need  of  him! 
He  is  so  little,  Lord,  he  cannot  sing. 
He  cannot  praise  Thee;  all  his  lips  had  learned 
Was  to  hold  fast  my  kisses  in  the  night. 

Give  him  to  me — he  is  not  happy  there  I 
He  had  not  felt  his  life;  his  lovely  eyes 
Just  knew  me  for  his  mother  and  he  died. 

Hast  Thou  an  angel  there  to  mother  him  ? 

I  say  he  loves  me  best — if  he  forgets, 

If  Thou  allow  it  that  my  child  forgets, 

And  runs  not  out  to  meet  me  when  I  come — 

What  are  my  curses  to  Thee  ?    Thou  hast  heard 

The  curse  of  Abel's  mother,  and  since  then 

We  have  not  ceased  to  threaten  at  Thy  throne. 

To  threat  and  pray  Thee  that  Thou  hold  them  still 

In  memory  of  us. 

See  Thou  tend  him  well. 
Thou  God  of  all  the  mothers!    If  he  lack 
One  of  his  kisses — ah,  my  heart,  my  heart, 
Do  angels  kiss  in  heaven  ?    Give  him  back! 

Forgive  me,  Lord,  but  I  am  sick  with  grief, 
And  tired  to  tears  and  cold  to  comforting. 
Thou  art  wise,  I  know,  and  tender,  aye,  and  good. 
Thou  hast  my  child  and  he  is  safe  with  Thee. 
And  I  believe 

Ah  God,  my  child  shall  go 
Orphaned  and  among  the  angels!    All  alone. 
So  little  and  alone !    He  knows  not  Thee, 
He  only  knows  his  mother — give  him  back!" 

"I  saw  a  man  mistreat  his  small  son  to-day,"  said  the  A  Child's 
observant  resident,  "and  I  know  that  some  day  the  child  injustice 
will  look  down  the  years  with  a  man's  eyes  and  count 
the  thing  in  his  estimate  of  his  father."     In  his  secret 
heart  every  living  man  pities  one  creature  above  all 

[121] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

A  Child's  others.    'Tis  himself  as  a  child.    His  remembrance  of 

tdustice  ^^^  °^^  ^^^^  youth  may  please  him ;  his  childhood  may 

have  been  good  and  happy;    yet  his  heart  will  surge 

with  pity  for  the  little  unseeing,  unknowing  person  who 

— whatever  he  was — was  helpless. 

*  *    * 

All  of  us  are  apt  to  have  an  acute  recollection  of  the 
important  incidents  in  our  childhood,  and  the  things 
that  meant  big  pleasure,  or  suffering,  or  injustice  do 
not  seem  smaller  as  the  years  pass.  A  child  draws  con- 
clusions ignorantly  or  blindly,  but  years  afterward  the 
man  looks  back  and  sees  the  truth.  If  he  is  the  right  sort 
of  man  he  will  still  be  grateful  for  the  punishment  that 
was  deserved  and  for  his  own  welfare,  but  when  his 
hair  is  white  he  will  not  forget  the  unfairness  or  harsh- 
ness that  may  have  clouded  his  life  when  he  was  not 
more  than  six  years  of  age.  It  may  be  against  his  will, 
but  he  must  sit  in  judgment  on  all  people  who  reached 
out  hands  to  touch  the  Hfe  of  that  child.  Matters  un- 
heeded then,  or  overlooked,  or  misunderstood,  rise  viv- 
idly under  the  inspection  of  sober,  experienced  eyes,  and 
the  man  knows  the  truth  and  must — in  spite  of  himself 
— place  it  in  the  scales  that  measure  the  estimate  of  an- 
other's life. 

*  *    * 

Men  treat  men  with  diplomacy  and  not  always  with 
sincerity;  but  the  man  remembers  that  his  cMld's  eyes 
saw  men  and  women  as  they  were.  He  did  not  under- 
stand them  then.  He  understands  them  now,  and  he 
must  judge  them  now  for  what  they  were  then.  For  the 
memory  of  childhood  does  not  die.  'Tis  the  one  thing 
[122] 


CHILDREN 

left  to  him  who  mumbles  at  the  side  of  the  hearth — too 
old  to  move.  What  happened  in  the  rush  of  manhood 
was  not  keenly  registered  on  the  passing  senses,  but  the 
child  had  seen  fresh,  glowing  pictures  that  are  still  seen 
clearly  and  understandingly  through  the  mist  of  the 
threescore  years.  And  the  man  whose  head  is  bowed 
with  age  must  yet  brood  awhile  over  the  unjust  anger 
or  the  cruelty  that  brought  pain  and  humiliation  to  the 
tender,  pitiful  child  who  lived  in  the  long  ago. 

iH      *      * 

Children  should  be  treated  not  as  fools,  but  ration- 
ally; firmly,  sternly,  if  you  please,  but  justly,  kindly, 
and,  over  and  above  all,  fairly.  See!  Yonder  is  a  man 
who  is  handling  his  boy  as  if  he  were  some  little  tame 
animal,  and  he  wouldn't  hesitate  to  deceive  him  half  a 
dozen  times  a  day.  Yet  if  that  father  would  pause  to 
think,  he  would  know  that  some  day  his  son  will  see 
him  as  unerringly  as  you  and  I  see  him  now.  And  the 
final  condemnation  of  a  child  lives  till  hfe  dies. 

Do  children  really  suffer  mentally?  Suffer!  Why,  Sorrows  of 
there  is  no  agony  on  earth  more  exquisite  than  the  suf-  ^  "  °° 
fering  of  a  young  child.  You  are  grown  up  now  and 
think  you  have  forgotten,  but  you  haven't.  When  you 
come  to  die,  or  in  tense  moments,  you  will  feel  that  you 
have  a  great  white  scar  that  marks  the  supreme,  wild 
sorrow  that  possessed  your  helpless  child's  soul.  Can't 
you  understand  the  swift,  clean  agony  that  came  to  that 
little  girl  as  she  tottered  over  to  save  that  burning  doll 
with  the  eyes  of  China  blue — her  doll — her  child  ?  Suf- 
fer— a  child  suffer?     The  man  immersed  in  business 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

cares  flinches  even  now  when  he  looks  back  on  the  years 
and  remembers  the  death  of  the  dog,  his  dog,  that  died 
when  he  was  young  and  tender — flinches  at  keen  recol- 
lection of  the  cold,  bleak  sky,  the  stillness  in  the  atmos- 
phere, and  the  Httle  dark  body  that  romped  no  longer 
but  lay  cold  and  inert.  The  bitter,  bitter  wail  that 
choked  the  throat  then  might  have  filled  a  universe 
with  its  sadness.  Children  are  the  playthings  of  Grief — 
a  thing  that  the  added  years  teaches  one  to  fight  and, 
God  wilHng,  to  subdue. 

A  Shattered  A  great  deal  has  been  said  about  the  misfortune  that 
befell  L.  C.  Caldwell,  Esq.,  when  he  had  his  false  beard 
burned  off  while  playing  Santa  Claus  at  a  Christmas 
tree,  and  so  far  everybody  has  commiserated  Mr.  Cald- 
well. But  the  writer  ventures  to  shed  a  tear  with  those 
little  children  who  beheved  that  Mr.  Caldwell,  in  his 
role  of  Kris  Kringle,  had  come  fresh  from  the  North 
Pole,  and  that  even  the  last  hair  of  his  billustrious  beard 
was  safe  from  mortal  harm.  What  must  have  been  the 
horror,  not  to  say  disappointment,  of  the  youngsters 
when  they  saw  Santa  Claus  jerk  that  flaming  beard 
from  his  face  and  grimace  in  his  exceeding  pain  ?  That 
was  enough  to  inject  scepticism  and  distrust  into  the 
youth  of  the  entire  community.  AU  a-tumbling  came 
the  childish  air  castles.  Fairies  became  frauds;  Jack 
the  Giant  Killer  no  better  than  a  tin  soldier;  the  god- 
mother, a  washerwoman.  Here  was  unutterable  trag- 
edy. Disillusionment  usually  comes  gradually — as 
steady,  irresistible  blows  at  peace;  but  in  that  little 
room  where  Mr.  Caldwell  stood  as  the  hving  embodi- 
[124I 


CHILDREN 

ment  of  the  Christmas  spirit  there  was  a  psychological 
crash,  and  even  the  littlest  children  saw,  by  the  light 
that  flamed  above  the  beard,  that  the  doll  with  the  eyes 
of  gentian  blue  was  but  a  bit  of  wax  after  all;  that  the 
proud  httle  wooden  prince  sprawled  too  clumsily  at 
slight  gesture,  .  .  .  saw,  in  a  mental  flash,  that  the 
night  spirits  that  hover  over  tiny  beds  had  wide,  sor- 
rowful eyes,  and,  agonized,  were  about  to  flee  from  the 
ghastly  fire  that  curled  devihshly  around  a  whited  beard. 
Oh,  Mr.  Caldwell,  what  a  lot  you  will  have  to  answer 
for;  and  how  blind  you  are  in  thinking  that  your  sins 
and  woes  can  be  cured  by  the  mere  apphcation  of  cold 
cream ! 

The  community  was  glad  to  know  that  the  little  chil-  The 
dren  in  the  Rescue  Home  are  doing  well.  They  are  ^ot^^^^^^s 
such  tiny  little  ones — all  less  than  six  years  old.  They 
belong  to  the  class  that  must  be  fed  as  sparrows  are  fed, 
and  it  is  good  to  know  that  they  are  housed  and  cared 
for  in  a  motherly  way.  Maybe  some  of  you  remember 
a  pitiful  little  tragedy  that  was  enacted  here  two  years 
ago.  It  was  the  story  of  a  woman  and  her  child — a  girl- 
ish woman  who  looked  out  of  wearied  eyes  and  said  she 
was  not  good  enough  to  rear  the  baby.  There  was  no 
denial.  She  had  been  broken  at  the  wheel,  and  she  said 
in  a  wail  that  she  had  forfeited  her  right  to  the  man- 
child.  Well,  'tis  such  children  that  the  Rescue  Home 
cares  for — tender  little  children  who  might  otherwise 
be  as  friendless  and  homeless  as  little — dogs.  The 
great  aching  cry  of  the  motherless.  .  .  .  the  home  an- 
swers that  cry,  and  so  is  largely  privileged  and  blessful. 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Making      One  of  the  biggest  men  in  this  county  came  into  this 

^  H^appy  P^^*^^  '^^^  ^^^^^  ^^^  ^^^^  ■ 

"I  have  thought  it  all  out;   and  I  know  there  is  no 

happiness  in  the  world  save  in  giving  happiness  to  other 
people."  And  he  looked  into  space  and  thought  and 
thought.  The  next  day  a  rolHcking,  careless  youngster 
picked  up  little  Ben,  who  drives  the  Thompson  orphan- 
age donkey,  and  carried  him  into  a  drug  store  and  gave 
him  all  the  ice  cream  he  could  eat.  There  was  a  world 
full  of  sunshine ;  the  birds  sang  merrily  together,  and  a 
tender  little  heart  saw  only  beauty  and  bHss.  Lord — 
the  chance  is  everywhere — just  everywhere. 
*    *    * 

'Tis  an  old  plaint — this  curse  of  longing  for  the 
freshness  and  the  keen  appetites  of  childhood.  In  one 
of  the  local  drug  stores  the  other  day,  a  man  whose 
pockets  jingled  money  looked  at  a  little  raggedy  boy 
who  loitered  at  the  door  and  watched  wistfully  the  rev- 
ellers at  the  soda  water  counter.  His  eyes  glowed  in 
feverish  animalism.  There  was  a  dry  swallow  in  his 
throat  and  his  mouth  was  parched.  He  wanted  so 
much  to  eat  and  drink  those  heavenly  things  that  he 
had  to  fight  down  a  wail  of  bitterness.  The  man  beck- 
oned to  the  boy  and  fed  him  to  the  full.  The  boy  ate 
like  a  starved  thing,  yet  gratefully  and  happily  as  a 
prince.  He  looked  enviously  at  the  man  who  turned 
his  back  on  the  banquet  table  and  who  would  have 
given  half  his  possessions  to  have  tasted  that  moment 
of  satisfied  youth.  Here  is  a  small  tale  of  life  and 
living.  The  child  dreams  that  he  will  find  satisfaction 
complete  on  the  day  that  he  can  eat  what  he  likes  and 
[126] 


CHILDREN 

do  what  he  Hkes.  When  that  day  comes  he  is  satiated, 
and  he  spends  a  good  part  of  the  rest  of  his  Hfe  trying 
to  stimulate  an  appetite  that  left  him  when  he  ceased  to 
go  barefooted.  Finally  .  .  ,  "Mush  is  what  I  like 
best,"  said  the  late  Henry  Gratton  Springs,  who  was 
far  past  the  threescore  years  and  had  three-quarters  of 
a  million  dollars.  "I  have  tried  it  all,  but  mush — a 
plain,  simple  child's  dish  of  mush  is  best  of  all." 

And  Master  John  W.  Stagg,  Jr.,  will  be  missed,  too.  Master 
That  child  has  the  face  of  an  angel  and  a  heart  for  dev-  •'°  °    ^^ 
ilment  that  has  endeared  him  to  everybody  in  the  town. 

"Sometimes  I  know  what  I  have  missed,"  said  the  A 
confirmed  bachelor  with  a  sigh.  "I  suppose  there  is  sigh^°^^ 
only  one  thing  in  the  world  that  is  worth  while.  Years 
ago  this  friend  of  mine  came  to  me.  His  face  was 
flushed,  his  eyes  gleamed,  and  he  was  trembling  slightly. 
'Oh,  my  God,'  he  said  in  a  sort  of  whisper.  'It  is  a 
boy,  and  they  put  him  in  my  arms  and '....'  The 
mother?'  I  said.  'The  mother,'  he  replied,  'the 
mother  is  all  right.  The — mother!'  He  was  humbled, 
yet  glorified ;  and  I  felt  that  all  the  emotions  I  had  ever 
known  counted  for  naught.  That — that  is  worth  more 
than  all  the  rest.  This  ache  of  wanting  to  be  bothered 
by  a  baby.  ..." 

Have  you  heard  of  the  new  book  club  that  has  been  The  New 

organized  in  this  city  ?    It  is  called  Fame,  and  it  has 

only  four  members:    Frances  Osborne,  Annie  Dewey 

Chambers,  Mary  Osborne,  and  Estelle  Hargrave.     If 

[127] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  New  you  are  half  as  clever  as  these  little  women  you  will 
Boo    c  ub  j.ga^(jjiy  sgg  jjQ^  ^j^gy  gQ^  ^j^g  name  for  their  club.    Put 

in  a  line  the  first  letter  in  each  name.    Ah,  you  see  now, 
don't  you? 

The  members  of  this  club  are  between  the  ages  of  ten 
and  six  years.  Which  is  ten  and  which  is  six?  You 
mustn't  know,  you  know.  'Twould  be  against  the  dig- 
nity of  the  club  to  tell  an  indelicate  thing  like  that. 

And,  oh,  the  meetings  and  meetings  they  have!  Not 
Maeterhnckl  Not  George  Meredith!  Not  the  Eye- 
talian  poets !  Oh,  no,  of  course  not.  But  fairy  tales — 
aye,  the  dreamy  stories  of  the  prince  and  the  princess, 
the  sprites  in  buttercups,  the  elfs  in  wonderland,  the 
nymphs  in  the  dells,  the  mermaids  who  sang  by  the 
side  of  the  coral  reef. 

Here's  a  book  club !  Never  a  doubt,  never  a  criticism, 
never  a  bit  of  cold  analysis.  Alas !  It  is  true — too  true 
that  the  young  nobleman  was  changed  to  a  big  black 
bear — true  about  that  awful  giant  and  the  seven-league 
boots — true  that  the  slipper  and  the  prince  returned  to 
Cinderella.  Red  Riding  Hood!  How  pathetic,  .  .  . 
And  fairy  godmothers  are  always  ready  to  come  out  of 
the  next  room  and  do — oh,  just  anything! 

Fame!  So.  They've  all  the  fame  that  childhood 
wants — the  precious  misty  fame  that  is  near  to  the 
spirit  world — the  fame  that  the  older  world  forgets, 
forgetting  the  only  pleasure  that  is  complete. 

Four  Httle  heads  bending  low;  four  little  souls  that 
know  no  evil;  four  little  hearts  beating  in  perfect  faith 
and  perfect  happiness.  Dear,  simple,  unknowing — 
Fame. 

[128] 


CHAPTER  VII 


ANIMALS 


Every  few  months  it  becomes  the  duty  of  the  chron-  A  Law- 
icier  of  the  happenings  in  this  city  to  devote  a  special  goj-gg^ 
chapter  to  the  sage  doings  of  animals  in  the  community. 
The  last  chapter  dealt  with  the  loneliness  and  philoso- 
phy of  Capt.  A.  G.  Brenzier's  tailless  Isle  o'  Man  cat; 
and  the  history  is  cheerfully  resumed  with  an  account  of 
the  wisdom  of  Dr.  R,  L.  Gibbon's  horse. 

This  horse  was  hitched  to  a  buggy  in  front  of  the 
Private  Hospital  yesterday  morning  when  he  became 
frightened  by  the  near  approach  of  a  bicycle  and  ran 
away.  He  came  at  a  rapid  gait  till  close  to  the  square, 
and  then  he  remembered  the  city  ordinance  which  says 
that  no  horse,  not  even  a  runaway  doctor's  horse,  shall 
travel  across  the  square  at  a  greater  rate  of  speed  than 
three  miles  an  hour.  So  the  remembering  animal 
slowed  up  almost  to  a  walk  till  he  had  crossed  the  hard 
brick  pavement.  The  brief  respite  in  his  race  caused 
his  riotous  blood  to  cool,  and  after  he  had  crossed  the 
square  he  ran  no  more. 

And  the  two  horses  that  pull  the  Central  Hotel  'bus  Two 
also  know  a  thing  or  two.    The  other  night  when  they  jjorZg"^ 
were  at  the  Southern  depot,  Charley  Lindsay,  the  por- 
9  [129] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

ter,  not  noticing  that  the  driver  was  not  in  his  box,  rang 
the  bell  for  the  'bus  to  start  up-town.  The  horses  un- 
derstood the  signal,  and,  with  no  guidance  whatever, 
came  trotting  up  street,  pulling  the  'bus  free  from  all 
collision,  crossed  at  the  proper  place,  came  in  front  of 
the  Central,  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  then  gently 
backed  the  'bus  around  to  the  curbing  for  the  passen- 
gers to  get  out. 

"Judge  "  Dr.  George  Graham  has  a  little  water  spaniel  named 
Judge  that  is  a  rank  hypocrite.  In  the  daytime  he  stays 
at  home  and  is  a  proper  and  respectable  dog,  but  at 
night  he  is  on  the  town  and  is  the  constant  companion 
of  the  police.  He  has  fooled  his  owner  sadly,  and  Dr. 
Graham  little  guesses  that  his  prize  pup  is  a  runabout. 
The  dog  understands  the  art  of  deception  perfectly. 
Now,  he  and  Pitts  are  comrades,  and  at  any  hour  of  the 
night  he  may  be  seen  traipsing  at  the  heels  of  that  po- 
liceman, but  when  Pitts  happened  to  go  to  Dr.  Gra- 
ham's house  the  other  morning,  Judge  met  him  at  the 
gate  and  barked  at  him  furiously.  He  simply  wouldn't 
be  pacified,  and  made  as  if  he  would  hke  to  eat  Pitts. 
But  there  was  a  roguish  twinkle  in  his  eye.  That  night 
he  stole  away  from  home,  found  Pitts  at  the  police  sta- 
tion, followed  him  till  daylight,  and  then  sneaked  home 
through  back  streets. 


A  Disserta-      Of  all  the  sporting  gentlemen,  the  cat  is  the  sporting- 
*'°Cats  ^^^'    Who  so  ready  for  the  chase — who  so  vigilant  and 
patient  ?    Even  more  so  than  an  Esquimaux  a  cat  is  like 
[130] 


ANIMALS 

unto  Izaak  Walton.  Perchance  he  sleeps  a  while  on  A  Disserta- 
the  hearth  or  climbs  to  the  top  of  a  high  fence  and  lifts  cats°" 
his  voice  in  melody,  but  he  ever  has  the  same  prepared- 
ness for  the  chase  that  his  forebears  had  in  the  jungles 
thousands  of  years  ago.  Such  a  beautiful  life  he  has! 
His  chiefest  ambition  is  to  catch  rats,  which  are  forever 
giving  him  a  delightful  surprise  party,  or  else  they  creep 
out  of  holes  to  reward  his  exceeding  vigilance.  Above 
all  other  living  things  the  cat  does  more  of  what  he  likes 
to  do.  Man  and  the  other  animals  are  curbed,  but  a 
cat  is  a  free  lance  from  his  earliest  childhood.  He  can 
go  and  come  when  he  pleases,  and  it  is  the  mission  of  his 
life  to  find  perfect  pleasure  in  selfishness.  But  it  is  as  a 
sportsman  that  he  wins  most  renown.  He  counts  more 
scalps  than  anybody;  and  with  him  the  joy  of  the  kill 
and  the  rapture  of  the  feast  are  nicely  blended.  While 
he  purrs  -under  the  stroke  of  civilization  he  throws  back 
to  the  old  days,  and  panders  to  every  primitive,  barbaric 
impulse  of  his  nature.  He  never  laughs  and  he  never 
smiles,  never  gives  affection  to  anything  or  considers 
anything  except  his  appetites,  yet  the  world  approves 
of  him.  He  is  the  unfairest,  sneakingest  hunter  and  the 
crudest  thing  alive,  but  his  methods  do  not  provoke 
even  a  frown.  He  reeks  in  misdeeds,  but  is  selected  as 
the  fit  companion  for  the  newly  born  as  well  as  for  the 
agedly  virtuous.  Such  a  gentleman  a  cat  is,  to  be  sure. 
He  defies  classification  in  his  own  kingdom,  and  is  be- 
yond any  comparison  except  as  illustrating  well-defined 
human  characteristics.  There  is  no  moral  to  any  story 
about  a  cat.  Cats  don't  figure  in  Sunday-school  story 
books  or  ecclesiastical  homilies. 
[131] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

A  Disserta-  A  cat  is  really  a  sphinx.  No  one  ever  knows  what  he 
*^°Cate  ^^  thinking  about  or  what  to  make  of  him  except  the 
witches,  and  they  won't  tell.  Of  course,  certain  moods 
are  understood.  In  the  heart  of  a  family  a  cat  lies,  and 
sometimes  purrs  under  the  last  touch  of  a  dying  hand; 
and  you  know  somehow  that  he  is  either  thinking  about 
torturing  a  rat  or  imagining  how  bully  it  would  be  to  slay 
a  canary  bird.  In  truth,  a  cat  plays  tricks  with  the  hu- 
man mind.  It  is  not  easy  to  picture  an  ideal  home  with- 
out thinking  of  a  cat  which  joins  his  purr  with  the  lazy 
hum  of  the  tea  kettle;  yet  in  the  Dark  Lands  where 
nightmare  is  gendered  there  is  a  cat.  Where  the  earth 
is  damp  and  foul  smell  is;  where  one  can  barely  see 
through  a  slimy  forest  and  gaze  upon  a  blood-red 
moon — there  a  cat  is,  a  mangy,  crawly  cat  with  shiny 
eyes.  His  image  is  the  dearest  plaything  of  a  baby  and 
yet  stalks  wailingly  and  unctuously  to  the  dead.  One 
tries  to  analyze,  and  then  must  loathe  a  cat;  and  then 
stops  and  caressingly  lays  his  hands  on  that  inscrutable 
face.  A  glorious,  free,  unfathomable  man  a  cat  is.  His 
song  belongs  to  the  after-world,  and  one  knows  it  will 
be  heard  there  as  a  thin  treble  in  satanic  chorus.  Mean- 
time he  is  privileged  to  show  the  only  reeking,  flaunted 
evil  that  is  conscienceless.  What  a  fine  contempt  he 
must  have  for  mankind — this  unsuffering,  remorseless 
cat  whose  creed  makes  him  lower  than  nearly  all  hu- 
manity and  bad  as  the  devil  himself. 
*    *    * 

Of  course  a  man  doesn't  make  such  a  scathing  criti- 
cism of  cats  unless  he  has  provocation.    For  a  year  or 
more  the  comment  man  has  been  writing  pieces  about 
[132] 


ANIMALS 

that  big  black  cat  up-stairs  in  the  club,  about  the  bell 
around  his  neck  and  how  it  cut  off  his  pleasure  and  pre- 
vented him  from  associating  with  other  cats.  Well,  he 
has  gone  and  had  four  kittens — up  there  in  the  room 
where  the  nice  old  colored  woman  keeps  the  sheets  and 
things.    And  it's  a  crying,  mewing  shame. 

Cats  play  a  large  part  in  the  life  of  the  community.  A  Spinster's 
Only  last  week  The  Observer  related  the  woes  of  a  lady  ^^*^ 
who  had  twenty-seven  pet  fehnes  and  yet  sorrowed  for 
the  death  of  one  beloved,  which  had  come  to  her  death 
through  a  small  boy  and  a  rifle.  All  these  twenty-seven 
cats  are  fat  and  docile  and  have  no  higher  wish  than  to 
loaf  around  the  house  and  be  scratched  on  the  head. 
So  many  cats  is  surely  a  thing  to  be  proud  of.  The 
only  criticism  that  can  be  made  of  these  fehnes  is  that 
they  are  too  lazy,  not  ambitious,  too — er — effete. 

Mister  Bob  Jordan  has  spent  several  thousand  dollars  ^.^^^J^^** 
in  putting  gilt  and  ghttcr  and  mirrors  and  mahogany 
and  things  in  his  billustrious  drug  store,  and  not  one 
cent  in  the  adornment  of  Benjamin  Tillman,  his  one- 
eyed  cat.  Yet  Ben  with  a  single  optic,  a  plebeian  face 
and  a  mussed  up  back  is  by  far  the  most  conspicuous 
figure  in  the  store,  though  he  is  as  much  out  of  place  in 
his  surroundings  as  a  bar-keep  in  the  present  municipal 
campaign.  Ben  suffers  from  "onwee."  He  remembers 
the  brave  pioneer  days  when  he  used  to  sit  in  Jordan's 
front  door  and  engage  in  hand  to  hand  combat  with 
rats  that  came  from  the  Central  Hotel  before  the  $150,- 
000  improvements  had  been  added  to  that  building. 

[133] 


Tillman  " 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Now  Ben,  too  old  to  change  his  home,  must  forever  be 
studying  his  own  homely  physiognomy  in  multitudin- 
ous mirrors,  must  parade  his  old  shaggy  coat  as  the 
wretchedest  garment  at  a  wedding  feast.  Ben  is  like 
your  poor  country  kin  trying  to  be  at  ease  in  your  best 
parlor. 

The  Black  A  black  cat  that  belongs  to  the  Southern  Manufac- 
the  Club  turers'  Club,  of  this  city,  wears  a  jingling  bell.  He  didn't 
ask  for  the  bell,  but  they  fastened  it  around  his  neck 
anyway.  At  first  the  bell  frightened  him  nearly  to  death, 
and  he  had  loud  convulsions  all  times  of  the  day  and 
night.  But  he  got  used  to  the  noise  and  now  he  rather 
likes  it.  He  comes  down  here  sometimes  and  sleeps 
over  in  the  corner  of  the  room  for  awhile.  The  first  thing 
he  does  when  he  wakes  up  is  to  shake  his  bell,  and  then 
he  purrs  his  pleasure  at  the  sound.  Truly,  it  may  be 
said,  he  has  music  wherever  he  goes. 

But  the  bell  has  brought  a  great  change  in  his  life. 
He  has  a  remarkably  fine  nose  for  a  mouse,  and  before 
he  wore  the  bell  he  was  a  diligent  and  accomplished 
sportsman.  Now  he  travels-  with  so  much  orchestral 
accompaniment  that  he  can't  get  within  fifty  feet  of  a 
rat.  The  sporting  instinct  is  in  him  strong,  but  he  is 
running  his  legs  off  in  a  vain  chase. 

And  that's  not  the  worst  of  his  condition.  He  is  a 
good-looking  cat,  with  a  fine,  rolhng  eye,  and  before  he 
was  attuned  to  music  he  was  a  welcome  and  esteemed 
member  of  the  best  cat  society  in  town.  Now  no  other 
cat  will  have  anything  to  do  with  him.  Why,  he  hasn't 
had  a  confidential,  heart-to-heart  talk  with  another  cat 
[134] 


ANIMALS 

in  three  months,  and  he  is  beginning  to  suffer  terribly 
from  loneHness.  You  see,  he  doesn't  know  what  the 
estrangement  is  all  about,  and  the  other  f  eHnes  are  so 
afraid  of  that  bell  that  they  won't  get  close  enough  to 
tell  him  the  trouble.  The  other  night  he  climbed  upon 
the  fence  in  the  back  yard  and  deHvered  a  rousing  ora- 
tion. He  said  he  was  at  a  loss  to  understand  why  his 
former  comrades  were  showing  him  the  marble  heart. 
He  had  done  nothing  wrong  that  he  knew  of;  he  re- 
mained the  same  old  sociable,  friendly  Tom  that  they 
used  to  know  so  well ;  and  why  in  the  world  did  they  re- 
fuse to  give  him  the  glad  hand  ?  With  that  he  bounced 
off  the  platform  and  went  over  to  attend  a  catly  tea 
across  the  way.  But  so  soon  as  they  heard  the  bell  the 
other  cats  fled,  and  again  he  was  left  alone.  He  came 
back  in  here  and  sat  down  and  was  buried  in  thought 
for  a  long  time ;  but  he  seems  to  have  no  adequate  rea- 
soning power.  He  hasn't  even  seen  a  rat  in  many 
weeks,  and  he  realizes  that  his  friends  have  placed  him 
in  Coventry;  but  he  is  still  delighted  with  the  bell,  and 
doesn't  connect  it  with  his  present  isolated  position. 
That  cat  is  like  a  lot  of  people.  Only  they  wear  the 
bells  quite  knowingly. 

Fagan,  the  Jew,  filled  with  terror  and  knowing  that  The 
he  was  to  be  hanged  in  a  few  minutes,  became  pro-  -p^Q^lH^ 
foundly  interested  in  the  movements  of  a  fly.  And 
in  moods  of  lesser  consequence  trifles  have  interested 
other  men.  At  five  o'clock  yesterday  afternoon  a  large 
red  rooster  came  from  somewhere  to  the  square.  There 
were  not  a  great  many  people  on  the  streets  and  very 
[135] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  little  movement  of  any  kind.  From  Woodall  &  Shep- 
Progress  P^-^d's  drug  store  to  Fourth  Street  that  rooster  at  once 
became  the  feature  of  interest.  He  did  nothing  to  speak 
of — ^just  strolled  along  and  stopped  to  peck  at  the 
ground,  and  seemed  perfectly  at  ease.  At  Burwell  & 
Dunn's  drug  store  men  came  out  on  the  street  and  gazed 
upon  the  chicken;  a  small  group  of  people  gathered  in 
front  of  Fitzsimons's  drug  store,  the  Western  Union 
Telegraph  Company,  The  Observer  building,  the  club, 
and  the  Buford  and  Central  Hotels,  and  stood  motion- 
less. All  eyes  were  upon  the  rooster.  Men  walked  out 
on  the  veranda  of  the  Manufacturers'  Club  and  looked 
down  upon  the  stroller.  There  was  absolutely  nothing 
about  him  to  attract  attention.  Every  now  and  then  he 
lifted  his  head  and  kind  of  chuckled  to  himself,  or 
peered  at  folks,  but  his  equilibrium  was  never  disturbed. 
There  was  a  profound  stillness.  More  men  came  to  the 
club  doors.  Men  hollered  to  men  'cross  the  street,  but 
nobody  seemed  to  know  anything  about  the  rooster.  At 
all  points  the  crowds  grew  larger.  As  far  down  as  the 
court-house  men  stood  still  and  looked  up  the  street. 
A  wagon  trotting  along  a  distant  block  made  a  faint  but 
clear  rumble.  People  came  to  up-stairs  windows  and 
looked  silently  at  the  rooster.  Now  several  hundred 
people  were  to  be  numbered  among  the  spectators. 
Judge  F.  I.  Osborne  stopped  at  the  square  and  looked 
down  the  street  upon  the  departing  fowl.  The  rooster 
stopped  in  front  of  the  Buford  Hotel  and  looked  Col. 
Henry  Clay  Eccles  full  in  the  face.  Not  a  word  was 
said;  not  a  greeting  was  exchanged.  There  was  a 
deathly  stillness.  The  tension  was  now  strong.  Little 
[136] 


ANIMALS 

children  were  becoming  attracted  to  the  scene.  Old 
men  and  old  women  stopped  and  looked.  Leisurely  the 
rooster  paused  when  he  came  to  Fourth  Street.  Slowly 
and  deliberately  he  turned  'round  and  glared  upon  all 
the  countless  eyes.  Then  carelessly,  without  hesitation, 
and  just  as  if  his  mind  had  been  made  up  from  the  first, 
he  walked  thoughtfully  down  Fourth  Street.  And  once 
more  the  town  yawned  and  lapsed  into  utter  boredom. 
This  was  the  livest  news  item  of  the  day. 

Jack,  the  celebrated  bull  dog  belonging  to  Mr.  Os-  "Jack" 
mond  L.  Barringer,  was  shot  and  killed  at  two  o'clock 
yesterday  morning  by  Mr.  George  Fitzsimons.  Mr. 
Fitzsimons  says  he  killed  the  dog  to  save  the  life  of  Shep, 
his  Scotch  collie,  who  has  the  complexion  of  Bob,  Son 
of  Battle,  but  whose  chief  aim  in  life  is  to  play  with  the 
little  Fitzsimons  children. 

Jack  met  his  death  merely  because  he  followed  the 
instincts  of  a  bull  dog.  With  people  he  was  gentle  and 
affectionate;  but  he  beheved  it  was  his  mission  in  life 
to  slay  other  dogs  and  cats,  and  he  fought  on  sight — 
fought  without  any  preHminary  growling  or  quarreling. 
He  was  as  lithe  as  a  panther,  and  when  he  met  another 
dog  his  body  went  out  like  a  catapult,  and  he  never 
rested  until  his  teeth  were  on  the  enemy's  throat  and 
his  own  eyes  were  closed  for  the  kill.  Jack  knew  no 
half-way  measures.    He  wanted  to  murder. 

Shep  Hves  close  to  Jack's  home — the  Barringer  home 

— on  North  Tryon  Street,  and  he  seemed  to  tantalize 

Jack.    Shep  is  a  beautiful  dog,  with  a  fine,  benevolent 

eye,  and  night  after  night  he  used  to  tempt  Jack  by  lying 

[137] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

"Jack"  out  under  the  electric  light,  plain  to  see,  yet  safe  in  a 
public  place. 

There  is  reason  to  believe  that  Jack  determined  long 
ago  to  slay  Shep.  Mr.  Fitzsimons  dreaded  an  encoun- 
ter and  he  told  Mr.  Barringer  that  if  the  bull  dog  came 
to  his  place  and  made  an  attack  he  would  shoot  him. 
Mr.  Barringer  offered  no  objection  to  this  proposition, 
though  he  and  Mr.  Fitzsimons  agreed  that  if  the  collie 
should  go  to  the  Barringer  premises  and  be  killed  there, 
there  would  be  no  cause  for  hard  feeling.  Both  men 
knew — as  everybody  else  knew — that  if  the  two  dogs 
had  an  uninterrupted  meeting  the  death  of  Shep  would 
result. 

Between  the  two  dogs  there  was  peace,  however,  un- 
til Mr.  Barringer  left  town  and  went  to  Baltimore. 
There  was  nobody  on  the  premises  to  restrain  Jack's 
movements,  and  he  celebrated  his  first  night  of  freedom 
by  attacking  Shep  in  front  of  the  Fitzsimons  home. 
The  struggles  of  the  collie  aroused  Mr.  Fitzsimons,  who 
ran  to  the  scene.  Jack  had  not  yet  warmed  up  to  the 
fight,  and  he  loosed  his  hold  and  fled  when  Mr.  Fitzsi- 
mons appeared. 

The  attack  on  the  collie  yesterday  morning  was  as 
well  planned  as  if  it  had  been  the  conception  of  the  hu- 
man brain.  The  Barringer  home  was  practically  de- 
serted, and  Jack  and  a  younger  bull  dog  belonging  to 
Mr.  Barringer  had  the  free  run  of  the  grounds.  Stand- 
ing in  the  shadow  of  their  yard  they  could  easily  keep 
account  of  the  movements  of  the  collie  in  the  yard 
across  the  way. 

Up  to  midnight  Shep  was  seen  in  front  of  the  Fitzsi- 
[138I 


ANIMALS 

mons  house.    Some  time  after  midnight  he  went  around  "Jack" 
the  house  and  into  the  back  yard.    The  two  bull  dogs 
crept  across   the   deserted  street,   through   the    Fitz- 
simons  yard,  past  the  house,  and  went  down  on  their 
game. 

Apparently  Shep  didn't  have  one  chance  in  a  thou- 
sand of  escaping  death.  After  the  first  rough-and-tum- 
ble the  bull  dogs  fastened  hard  with  their  teeth — the 
younger  dog  on  the  loins.  Jack  at  the  throat.  The  muf- 
fled screams  of  their  pet  collie  aroused  the  Fitzsimons 
children,  who  raised  a  wail  in  harmony.  Without  paus- 
ing to  dress.  Dr.  Joseph  Graham  and  Mr.  Fitzsimons 
rushed  out  into  the  yard  to  the  rescue.  The  younger 
bull  dog  saw  the  men  and  fled.  But  the  game  was  now 
too  sweet  for  Jack  to  abandon.  His  hind  feet  were  tug- 
ging at  the  ground  strenuously  and  he  was  shaking  the 
big  collie  like  a  reed  in  the  wind.  Shep  was  still  nimble 
on  his  feet,  and  in  his  sharp  struggles  to  escape  he  and 
the  bull  dog  whirled  in  circles. 

The  fact  that  the  dogs  moved  almost  as  one  body  pre- 
vented the  men  from  shooting  for  a  minute  or  so.  They 
feared  they  might  strike  the  collie.  Dr.  Graham  opened 
the  attack  and  missed.  The  first  two  or  three  shots 
went  wild,  and  then  Mr.  Fitzsimons  picked  his  chance 
and  shot  the  bull  dog  through  the  lungs.  Instantly  a 
great  red  splash  appeared  on  the  clean  white  side  of  the 
dog,  but  he  only  tightened  his  hold  on  his  victim.  Mr. 
Fitzsimons  stepped  nearer  still  and  fired,  striking  Jack 
just  behind  the  left  foreleg.  'Twas  a  mortal  wound. 
Yet  the  bull  dog  only  lunged  harder  for  the  collie,  and 
his  teeth  did  not  relax  until  he  was  overcome  by  weak- 
[139] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

"Jack"  ness.  Slowly,  gradually,  almost  with  a  sigh,  he  turned 
the  collie  loose — stepped  back  and  looked  at  Mr.  Fitz- 
simons. 

"At  that  moment,"  said  Mr.  Fitzsimons,  "he  com- 
pelled my  utmost  admiration.  I  started  to  shoot  again, 
but  I  couldn't  shoot,  somehow.  He  did  not  cower  or 
seem  at  all  afraid.  He  looked  me  in  the  face  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  he  walked  away — straight  out  in  front 
of  the  Lutheran  church,  where  he  fell  on  the  sidewalk. 
Then,  to  relieve  his  suffering,  I  walked  to  him  and  shot 
him  through  the  head.  He  was  the  gamest  bull  dog  I 
ever  saw,  and  a  bull  dog,  you  know,  is  the  gamest  thing 
in  the  world." 

The  news  of  Jack's  death  will  come  as  a  great  blow 
to  Mr.  Barringer,  who  is  with  the  Elks  in  Baltimore. 
His  love  for  the  dog  was  passing  strong.  He  had 
owned  the  little  fellow  since  he  was  a  tiny  pup,  and 
there  was  a  strange  sort  of  comradeship  between  the 
two — the  man  and  the  dog.  More  than  almost  any 
other  dog  that  the  town  knew.  Jack  was  like  folks. 
He  was  a  gentleman  all  the  way  through,  and  his  po- 
liteness to  people  made  him  notable.  He  bothered 
nothing  in  the  world  but  dogs — and  cats. 
*    *    * 

In  the  canine  annals  of  crime  Jack  has  no  peer.  Even 
Mr.  Barringer  has  ceased  to  try  to  count  the  number  of 
fights  Jack  had,  but  Mr.  Barringer  knows  that  Jack  has 
killed  in  twenty-nine  fights  and  has  never  been  van- 
quished in  any  combat. 

The  presence  of  Jack  alone  would  have  made  the 
Barringer  premises  famous  in  a  way.  If  a  dog,  no  mat- 
[140] 


ANIMALS 

ter  what  kind  of  a  dog,  went  in  there  he  died  nine  times  "Jack" 
out  of  ten,  and  if  he  escaped  death  'twas  merely  because 
some  person  happened  to  be  close  by  to  pry  open  the 
teeth  of  the  bull  dog.  No  dog,  however  large,  stood  any 
chance  with  Jack.  With  the  biggest  dog  he  had  a 
method  of  wriggling  in  under  his  adversary's  body  and 
making  that  fatal  coup  at  the  throat.  Many  residents  of 
North  Tryon  Street  still  remember  the  time  that  Jack 
went  out  and  introduced  himself  to  the  big  St.  Bernard 
dog  that  weighed  about  one  hundred  and  sixty  pounds, 
was  fashioned  like  a  young  calf,  and  belonged  to  Mr. 
John  Oates.  Jack  weighed  twenty-five  pounds,  or 
something  like  that,  and  he  was  trying  to  kill  the  St. 
Bernard  by  sections,  when  the  big  dog  opened  his 
mouth  and  cried  so  loudly  that  he  could  have  been 
heard  a  mile.  He  didn't  try  to  fight.  He  struck  his  col- 
ors at  once,  and  begged  for  somebody  to  come  and  take 
him  away  from  the  Terrible  Thing.  And  it  required 
the  efforts  of  an  entire  family  to  save  the  Bernard's 
life. 

Away  from  home.  Jack  fought  only  on  suggestion  or 
because  he  was  ordered  to  fight.  Once  he  fought  in  a 
public  place,  in  Jordan's  drug  store,  and  when  the  other 
dog  had  come  to  breathe  like  a  very  sick  kitten  they 
poured  ammonia  on  Jack's  face,  destroying  the  sight  of 
one  of  his  eyes.  Afterward,  when  a  veterinary  surgeon 
took  Jack  in  the  rear  of  The  Observer  building  and  cut 
out  the  injured  eye,  the  dog  lay  perfectly  still  and  never 
whimpered,  though  he  must  have  suffered  intense 
pain. 

Jack  was  better  known  than  any  dog  in  Mecklenburg 
[141] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

"Jack"  county,  or,  maybe,  any  dog  in  North  Carolina.  He 
slew  ruthlessly,  and  his  death,  as  it  came,  seemed  in- 
evitable. If  he  were  a  man  it  might  be  said  that  he  per- 
ished by  the  sword. 

Or,  better  still,  Jack  died  with  his  boots  on. 


[143] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

CHRISTMAS 

Christmas  is  almost  here  —  Christmas,  the  saddest,  Christmas 
sweetest  time  of  the  year.  It  is  a  period  for  entertain-  °°"°S 
ment  and  family  reunion,  and  a  time  when  one  remem- 
bers how  old  one  is,  how  worthless,  and  how  little  he  has 
really  accomplished.  Heaven  here  belongs  to  the  ten- 
der world  that  doesn't  know  the  truth  about  Santa  Claus, 
and  beyond  that  world  happiness  is  feverish  and  fitful. 
To  the  young,  Christmas  is  a  million  miles  away,  but  as 
one  grows  older  time's  circle  moves  more  rapidly,  and 
finally  Christmas  follows  Christmas  too  hurriedly.  The 
old  people  say  that  only  the  world  is  old;  that  man  is 
ever  young;  and  the  mere  space  of  Yesterday  is  between 
the  young  heart  that  yearned  for  the  filled  stocking  and 
the  old,  feeble  heart  that  may  never  throb  another 
Christmas  day. 

Christmas  again — and  Santa  Claus.  You  give  and  Santa-Claus 
receive,  and  congratulate,  yet  for  all  your  felicitation 
there  are  moments  when  the  season  is  sad  to  you,  even 
while  it  is  sweetest.  It  is  a  time  when  you  review  not 
only  a  year  and  long  for  lost  opportunites  for  improve- 
ment, but  your  vision  goes  further  and  you  watch  the 
workings  of  a  child's  mind  as  it  turned  from  utter  faith 
[i43l 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

to  disillusionment.  First  some  one  told  you  who  Santa 
Claus  was.  You  were  glad  to  know  then,  and  proud. 
But  you're  not  glad  now  when  you  come  to  think  of  it. 
Unfaith  started  then.  In  a  mental  flash  you  trace  the 
journey  of  that  child,  and  you  find  that  there  was  too 
much  telling,  too  many  people  who  were  ready  to  break 
down  ideals ;  and  you  find  that  you,  too,  have  helped  to 
destroy  the  faith  of  other  people.  Along  the  perilous 
path  you  have  seen  the  child  come  to  the  vital  present; 
not  unscarred  and  with  knowledge  that  is  merciless. 
You  and  only  you  know  what  the  child  did  along  the 
way — only  you  and  God  know  the  blunders,  the  sins, 
the  selfishness.  You  see  all  this  because  you  cannot 
help  seeing  it ;  because  at  this  beautiful  season  you  real- 
ize that  perfect  happiness  is  given  only  to  little  children ; 
and  that  after  childhood  must  come  the  fight,  the  temp- 
tation, the  fall,  the  great  sorrow.  .  .  .  After  the  thought 
charity  must  come.  The  best  spirit  of  Christmas  is 
Charity — Charity  rising  out  of  remembrance  of  the 
long,  bitter  road  that  the  little  child  trod. 

A  Christmas  "A  merry  Christmas  and  a  happy  New  Year!" 
Chariotte  These  be  immortal  words.  They  suggest  happy 
firesides  and  blazing  logs ;  the  joy  of  little  children ;  the 
repeated  handshake ;  the  ready  offering  of  charity ;  the 
deepening  of  love;  and  a  sweeter  showing  of  spiritual 
life. 

As  the  words  are  written,  the  voice  of  the  cow  bell  and 

the  tin  horn  and  the  explosion  of  the  torpedo  are  heard 

out  on  the  streets.     'Tis  the  night  before  Christmas. 

One  can  shut  his  eyes  and  see  the  long  rows  of  houses 

[  144  ] 


CHRISTMAS 

covered  with  snow;  can  almost  feel  the  quietude.   There  A  Christmas 
is  the  gathering  of  families — the  oft-told  reminiscences.  chLlotte 
Some  one  reads  a  Christmas  story.    The  youngest  child 
goes  to  sleep  on  the  lounge.    Such  things  form  part  of 
the  universal  idea  of  what  Christmas  eve  should  be. 

But  the  noise  of  the  cow  bell  grows  louder  and  louder 
outside. 

A  perfect  bedlam!  It  was  so  all  day.  Not  hundreds 
but  thousands  of  people  thronged  the  shops;  and  the 
streets  were  crowded  with  shoppers  who  lopped  over 
and  sometimes  blocked  traffic  in  the  widest  thorough- 
fares. 

The  increased  shopping  was  only  an  emphasized 
feature  of  the  week.  There  was  more  shopping — 
much  more  shopping.  Before  this  the  paper  has  called 
attention  to  the  vast  amount  of  Christmas  money  that 
was  being  spent  here.  But  yesterday,  records  were 
broken.  Seemingly,  all  merchants  were  selling  out  every- 
thing they  had.  In  the  stores  there  seemed  to  be  a 
veritable  stampede,  and  there  might  have  been  a  stam- 
pede had  it  not  been  for  the  wonderful  amount  of  good 
nature  that  was  shown  everywhere. 

Everything  was  bought  and  sold  in  large  quantities. 
One  furniture  establishment  had  three  hundred  orders 
for  delivery  in  the  forenoon.  Hardware  stores  came 
under  the  shower  of  holiday  gold.  And  the  Christmas 
stores  proper — the  places  where  the  conventional  holi- 
day gifts  are  to  be  had — were  strained  to  the  utmost 
capacity  just  in  selling  the  articles  that  the  merry  crowd 
wished  to  purchase  in  a  hurry. 

The  year  has  been  unprecedented  in  its  financial  suc- 
lo  [ 145  ] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

A  Christmas  cess.  Everybody  seemed  to  have  plenty  of  money. 
ChariotS  Certainly  everybody  made  a  pretty  pretense  of  spend- 
ing plenty  of  money.  Wealth  was  scattered  reck- 
lessly. The  spectator,  keeping  tab  on  some  part  of  the 
multitude,  swore  that  the  shoppers  gave  far  less  than 
usual  thought  to  purchases.  Money  came  readily  out 
of  pocket,  and  flowed  quickly  in  the  general  effort  to 
satisfy  the  municipal  Santa  Claus.  The  evidence  of 
prosperity  was  the  keynote  of  the  day.  Charlotte  had 
relaxed  and  was  showing  itself  and  the  world  that  it  was 
rejoicing  in  the  commercial  blessing. 

This  suggests  the  inner  condition — the  general  bias. 
Everybody  seemed  glad  to  see  everybody  else.  Laugh- 
ter was  heard  every  five  feet.  Old  friends  were  returning 
and  receiving  warm  welcomes.  The  faces  of  little  chil- 
dren were  radiant  with  happiness.  The  spirit  of  Christ- 
mas was  perfect  in  a  heartfelt  way. 
*    *    * 

The  purely  physical  aspect  of  Christmas  eve  was  be- 
wildering. The  noise  beggared  description.  The  little 
boy  touches  off  a  firecracker,  and  fires  a  cannon,  or 
yells  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  That  is  the  ideal  concomi- 
tant of  Christmas.  But  it  is  marvellous  when  all  the 
sound  that  can  be  made  by  ten  thousand  or  more  peo- 
ple moving  in  a  small  area  is  drowned  by  the  sound  of  a 
cow  bell.  But  that  is  what  happened.  It  is  not  known 
how  the  cow  bell  mania  started  here ;  but  there  is  a  tra- 
dition to  the  effect  that  once,  when  the  police  shut  off 
all  noise,  Armistead  Burwell,  Jr.,  who  was  quite  a  lad 
bought  a  cow  bell  and  gave  vent  to  his  surcharged  fef 
ings  by  trailing  it  half  a  block.  That  was  sufficient  to 
[146] 


CHRISTMAS 

create  the  disease — started  the  epidemic,  just  as  Buffalo  A  Christmas 
Bill's  show  blanketed  the  town  with  measles.  Charlotte 

The  only  extra  business  stand  that  was  erected  dur- 
ing the  holiday  season  was  for  the  purpose  of  retailing 
cow  bells.  Their  use  is  odd.  They  are  not  held  aloft 
and  waved  as  a  token  of  jubilation,  but  are  dragged  in 
a  bumpety-bump  sort  of  manner  along  the  pavement 
carelessly  or  apathetically,  and  yet  the  effect  is  such 
that  the  composite  sound  that  goes  to  the  heavens  from 
Charlotte  is  that  of  a  cow  bell  trying  to  blend  harmo- 
nies with  a  tin  horn. 

Youth  and  age  meet  here  on  the  dead  level  with  a 
cow  bell.  Col.  R.  O.  Colt  cracked  his  heels  together  at 
the  square,  whooped  in  the  fulness  of  his  joy,  and  jan- 
gled his  cow  bell.  Little  Lacy  Seawell  did  likewise. 
A  colored  girl  with  a  green  hat  and  a  pink  waist  sniffed 
the  air  because  her  cow  bell  was  as  good  as  anybody's. 
The  society  women  and  the  factory  girl  found  democ- 
racy in  the  bell. 

The  noise  was  devilish  and  incessant. 

Jubilation  was  unchecked,  and  the  police  merely  con- 
fined themselves  to  a  diligent  effort  to  keep  the  street  as 
passable  as  possible.  From  eight  till  eleven  o'clock 
last  night  nearly  every  foot  of  space  at  the  square  was 
covered  by  surging  humanity  that  held  noise-making 
as  a  common  object.  Confetti  was  dashed  into  the  face 
of  anybody.  There  must  have  been  people  at  home; 
but  the  local  world  seemed  to  be  on  the  streets.  Never 
was  such  a  Christmas  in  Charlotte. 

The  day  was  without  sensational  incident.     In  all 
the  melde  no  one  was  seriously  hurt.    Beyond  the  arrest- 
[147] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

ing  of  those  who  drank  too  deeply,  the  police  had  very 
little  to  do.  Out  of  a  hurrying  crowd  on  East  Trade 
Street  came  a  burly  negro  who  fought  hard  against  sev- 
eral officers.  The  crowd  held  its  breath  momentarily. 
Then  an  officer  swung  his  club  hard  into  action,  and 
there  was  the  splutter  of  blood — the  end  of  the  strug- 
gle. The  offender  joined  others  of  his  kind  at  the  sta- 
tion, where  stentorian  voice  or  heavy,  soggy  snores  tell 
the  tale  of  ineffectual  pleasure. 

But  the  day,  taken  altogether,  stood  for  success.  The 
beginning  and  end  of  it  showed  a  wonderful  degree  of 
prosperity;  or  to  quote  Mr.  L.  W.  Sanders,  "It  was  the 
best  Christmas  Charlotte  ever  had." 

To-day  the  note  of  the  cow  bell  will  be  resumed  as 
the  only  pronounced  sign  of  celebration.  In  keeping 
with  the  real  spirit  of  the  hour  there  will  be  much  hos- 
pitality here — ^many  family  dinners  and  reunions.  And, 
of  course,  there  will  be  the  usual  service  in  all  the 
churches,  with  unusually  good  music  everywhere. 

Such  is  the  general  outline  of  Christmas  in  Charlotte. 
No  one  feature  rises  up  for  special  notice  except  the 
happiness  that  is  the  result  of  money-making  and 
money-spending.  As  a  token  of  the  times  the  cow  bell 
has  the  right  of  way.  If  there  is  peace  in  you,  and  you, 
the  cow  bell  and  the  tin  horn  may  not  speak  it,  and  it  may 
not  come,  individually,  as  a  part  of  the  flush  of  money. 
Here  are  the  mystery  and  the  wonder.    But 

"A  Merry  Christmas  and  a  Happy  New  Year." 

Reflections      One  wonders  what  Christmas  means  to  the  other  fel- 
low.   To  children  it  is  Paradise  transplanted,  but  men 
[148] 


CHRISTMAS 

and  women  view  it  differently.    To  some  it  is  a  time  for  Reflections 
love  and  charity;  to  others  a  time  for  envy  and  discon- 
tent.   To  some  it  brings  the  j,ubilation  that  came  finally 
to  old  Scrooge ;  to  others  it  brings  boredom. 

*  *    * 

To  a  composite  element  of  mankind  Christmas  is  a 
long  space  reheved  from  tediousness  by  a  family  dinner 
that  provides  two  helpings  of  rice  and  gravy,  not  mince 
pie  and  sleepiness.  Your  oldest  relative  once  more  tells 
the  story  of  your  most  youthful  folly,  and  afterward  you 
go  into  the  parlor  and  pick  away  at  the  nuts  and  raisins 
and  things  that  rest  in  a  bowl  and  decorate  the  centre 
table.  The  youngest  child  in  the  house  brings  you  a 
fresh,  smelly  story  book,  to  read  upside  down;  every- 
body resists  an  inclination  to  stand  up  in  front  of  the 
grate  and  stretch;  and  somebody  goes  over  to  the  piano 
and  plays  "The  Blue  Bells  of  Scotland"  with  the  right 
forefinger.  A  man  from  a  distance  has  sent  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  house  some  American  Beauty  roses,  and  she 
busies  herself  by  carrying  these  from  room  to  room, 
humming  as  she  walks.  Out  in  the  hall  you  hear  chil- 
dren from  over  the  way  bragging  to  your  children  about 
the  superiority  of  the  gifts  that  were  in  their  stockings. 
When  you  go  to  bed  that  night  you  feel  as  if  you  had 
spent  the  day  at  a  circus  where  they  didn't  have  any 
clowns;  and,  moreover,  your  sheets  feel  chilly  and 
dampish.  Sheets  always  feel  like  that  on  Christmas 
night,  somehow  or  other. 

*  *    * 

Christmas  is  like  any  other  gala  day  or  a  big  recep- 
tion.   To  find  pleasure  you  must  have  it  inside  your- 
[  149  ] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Reflections  self.  This  statement  might  seem  unnecessary  if  it  were 
not  for  the  fact  that  in  the  matter  of  happiness  the  vast 
majority  of  people  are  utterly  without  personal  resource. 
They  must  have  happiness  throvs^n  at  them,  or  absorb 
bits  of  it  here  and  there;  and  when  they  are  forced  to 
subsist  only  on  the  lights  and  thoughts  that  God  has 
given  them  they  very  properly  perish  with  ennui.  The 
empty  fool  in  search  of  amusement  touches  you  at  every 
comer. 

*  *    * 

You  see,  there  is  such  a  hue  and  cry  over  Christmas, 
and  when  the  day  comes  it  may  easily  bring  unsweet- 
ness — that  let-down  feeling  of  disappointment.  No 
one  is  allowed  to  approach  Christmas  soberly  or  dis- 
passionately. A  few  weeks  beforehand  life  may  be  in 
placid  waters,  but  as  the  time  of  celebration  draws  nigh 
the  stream  becomes  a  swift  current  and  then  a  vortex 
that  whirls  to  and  fro  the  universal  multitude  clutching 
holiday  gifts.  When  the  storm  ceases,  if  you  are  a 
woman  and  are  satisfied  with  what  you've  got  you  are 
a  miracle;  if  you  are  a  man  and  can  pay  for  what  you 
have  given  you  are  a  blessed  exception.  This  is  Christ- 
mas with  the  varnish  off — Christmas  described  in  re- 
membrance of  home- knit  socks  that  didn't  fit;  inevita- 
ble indigestion;  wet  fingers  that  plastered  pink  candy; 
useful  donations  that  weren't  useful;  and  the  same  old 
snowbird  on  the  same  old  white  card. 

*  *    * 

All  this  is  intended  as  a  bare  touch  of  realism — a 
kindly,  though  maybe  a  pessimistic,  silhouette.    The 
setting  may  be  tiresome,  but  it  will  be  gorgeous  if  you 
[150] 


CHRISTMAS 

have  that  happy  heart.    The  man  who  wants  the  day  to  Reflections 
give  him  something  will  find  it  a  failure.    It  is  a  success 
when  the  individual  assumes  that  it  is  his  duty  to  bring 
to  the  day  love,  charity,  sympathy,  peace. 
*    *    * 

And,  while  absorbing  the  cardinal  virtues,  he  should 
charge  himself  with  the  obligation  of  bringing  to  Christ- 
mas one  other  quality.  That  is  understanding — a  thing 
that  sermonizing  takes  into  too  little  account.  Your 
enemies  are  very  often  a  tribute  to  your  strength  of  char- 
acter, and  malice  may  be  fought  in  the  open.  Richard 
Harding  Davis  has  one  of  his  characters  to  say  that  it 
is  the  well-meaning  fools  who  cause  most  trouble ;  and 
there  are  other  varied  characterizations  of  kinds  of  folk 
who  constitute  the  most  disagreeable  citizenship.  But 
the  people  who  do  not  understand,  wilfully  do  not  un- 
derstand, do  the  greatest  evil.  It  is  a  common  privilege 
to  speculate  as  to  the  punishment  the  other  man  will  re- 
ceive in  the  hereafter,  and  it  is  respectfully  maintained 
here  that  a  particularly  warm  hell  belongs  by  right  to 
those  persons  who  go  around  declaring  motives  where 
there  aren't  motives,  and  make  a  Hfetime  business  of 
trying  to  break  hearts  by  misunderstanding.  Every  one 
who  takes  himself  seriously  and  conscientiously  would 
like  to  shield  his  life  and  his  work  from  this  class,  which 
are  Hke  half-fed  vampires  brooding  pleasurably  over 
suffering  and  toil.  These  be  the  people  who  enter  your 
house  through  the  front  door  and  are  given  the  seat  of 
honor  at.  your  table,  and  right  knowingly  they  take  the 
things  you  say  and  the  things  you  do  and,  in  distortion, 
flaunt  you  and  covertly  taunt  you  to  your  hurt.  The 
[151] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Reflections  greatest  tragedy  is  not  death,  but  a  miserable  life,  and 
misunderstanding  causes  more  misery  than  anything 
else  in  the  world. 

*  *    * 

To  try  to  understand  the  other  man — this,  also,  should 
be  a  very  sacred  and  tender  duty.  Apart  from  religion, 
fairness  is  the  one  thing  that  makes  life  bearable;  and 
understanding  is  fairness. 

*  *    * 

"God  bless  us  all,"  said  Tiny  Tim,  and  the  saying 
beautifies  a  universe  at  tL^s  season.  Maybe  God  will 
not  see  fit  to  bless  all  of  us,  and  therefore  puny  man's 
duty  to  his  fellow  man  is  larger  and  better. 


[152] 


CHAPTER  IX 


SOUTHERN  LIFE  AND   MANNERS 


''But  one  of  the  finest  speeches  I  ever  heard  in  my  Tribute  to 
life,"  the  Old  Man  continued,  "was  dehvered  by  'Gen-  North^State 
tleman'  George  Pendleton — Senator  George  H.  Pen- 
dleton, of  Ohio.    He  spoke  in  Charlotte  on  a  20th  of 
May  about  1878, 1  think;  and  it  was  in  the  address  that 
he  paid  this  memorable  tribute  to  North  Carolina: 

'"Without  great  cities  or  uncultivated  wastes,  with- 
out an  excess  of  riches  or  degrading  poverty,  she  has 
provided  a  University  for  the  education  of  her  sons, 
and  has  always  known  how  to  tread  that  middle  ground 
of  dignity  and  of  honor  and  of  self-respect  without 
which  no  State  is  permanently  built.' " 

'  The  educational  conference  is  about  the  biggest  thing  Illiteracy 
that  has  come  this  way  in  a  long  time,  and  it  will  result 
in  putting  a  good  many  dollars  into  the  schools  of  this 
county.  After  hearing  the  statement  of  Dr.  Wallace 
Buttrick,  of  the  general  educational  board  of  New  York 
City,  it  would  be  difficult  to  raise  any  objection  to  the 
gift.  He  said,  in  effect,  that  the  best  man  is  down  here 
and  promised  more  in  development  than  any  other,  and 
he  begged  to  be  allowed  to  help,  just  as  a  brother.  The 
[153] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

privilege  was  granted,  and  Mecklenburg  County  began 
a  new  chapter  in  history. 

The  episode  was  sad,  somehow.  It  is  no  little  thing 
to  proclaim  to  the  world  the  iUiteracy  of  this  State;  to 
discuss  and  berate  unfortunates  who  cannot  talk  back. 
The  realization  of  wretchedness  was  too  vivid.  The 
portrayal  of  it  reminded  one  of  a  father  who  needs  must 
whip  his  son  in  public. 

It  all  seemed  necessary — but,  oh,  the  shame  of  open 
s-hame !  To  be  sensitive,  proud,  reticent,  and  then  to  be 
held  up  for  universal  pity!  'Tis  the  rough  cut  of  a  sur- 
geon's knife. 

Wasted?  Mr.  Walter  H.  Page  said  there  had  been  enough 
brains  and  character  wasted  in  North  CaroHna  in  the 
last  one  hundred  years  to  have  managed  the  civilized 
globe.  Wasted !  Yes,  the  people  have  Hved  simply  and 
raised  big-hearted  children.  Countrymen  have  kept 
open  house  and  independence,  and  have  envied  no 
man.  And  there  be,  in  Httle  towns  in  this  State,  men 
who  wear  long  coats  and  slouch  hats.  They  have  the 
accent  of  an  Enghsh  lord,  the  manners  of  a  courtier,  the 
straight  strain  of  high  Saxon  breed.  They  be  gentle, 
brave  men,  who  might  have  ruled  a  world  and  are  con- 
tent to  govern  a  family.  And  for  twice  a  hundred  years, 
if  one  has  been  sick  in  a  hovel  in  the  North  State,  women 
have  come  and  tended  and  blessed.  Wasted?  Not 
quite  that.  Development  will  come  surely  and  every- 
body will  be  educated;  and  North  CaroHnians,  "na- 
tionalized," will  go  out  to  conquer  by  bigness.  Mean- 
time, thank  God  for  the  waste. 
[154] 


SOUTHERN  LIFE  AND  MANNERS 

'Tis  an  old  question,  revived  by  a  letter  that  wondered  The 
why  anybody  could  be  content  to  stay  in  Charlotte  or  "^^  ®  ® 
smaller  places  when  New  York,  Boston  and  other  larger 
cities  offer  so  much  more  broadening  influences  and  so 
much  greater  facilities  for  ambition.  The  letter  came 
from  a  man  who  has  lived  in  New  York,  only  a  year  or 
so  and  talks  gHbly  about  the  various  streets,  Weber  & 
Fields',  and  a  few  well-known  cafes.  Men  who 
know  New  York  thoroughly  and  are  known  in  that  city 
do  not  usually  advise  other  people  to  go  there  to  live. 
The  metropoHtan  enthusiast  is  the  new  resident,  who 
will  never  know  one-tenth  as  many  people  as  he  knew 
in  his  native  village.  He  becomes  dazed  by  the  glare  • 
and  glitter,  the  big  sounds  and  the  mad  tumult,  and  calls 
all  this  a  part  of  seeing  and  learning  and  living  and 
broadening. 

*  *    * 

But  is  the  city  life  more  broadening  than  the  life  down 
here  ?  Does  it  give  a  man  a  more  comprehensive  view 
of  life?  This  question  does  not  consider  the  genuine 
cosmopolitan  type — the  man  of  the  world  who  may  live 
in  New  York  or  anywhere,  and  who  is  broad  because  he 
has  found  how  utterly  small  he  is  and  simple  because 
he  has  learned  that  any  manner  other  than  simplicity  is 
absurd.  But  does  the  man  who  leaves  this  section  of 
country,  for  instance,  and  goes  to  New  York  to  live — 
does  he  enter  a  broader  or  a  narrower  life  ?  Has  he  a 
right  to  pity  those  that  are  left  behind  ? 

*  *    * 

What  does  the  city  give  the  rank  outsider?    What 
profit  does  New  York  offer  the  man  from  our  midst 
[155] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  who  goes  there  to  live  ?  He  is  swallowed  up,  lost  from 
Simple  Life  ^-^^  immediately,  for — saving  a  brilliant  few — who 
ever  heard  of  a  man  who  lived  in  New  York  ?  He  is  a 
tiny  thing  who  rubs  elbows  with  strangers.  He  sees 
millions  of  people  every  day,  and  is  lucky  if  he  gets  an 
opportunity  to  study  and  know  half  a  dozen.  He  has 
no  neighbors.  In  the  quick  rush  there  is  scant  time  for 
sympathy,  and  his  eyes,  seeing  no  further  than  camera 
lens,  can  take  no  intimate  account  of  the  undercurrent 
— the  pulsing  human  nature  that  is  about.  He  is  on  the 
outside  of  everything — a  little,  worrying  atom  that  must 
fight  fiercely  for  space.  He  may  make  a  lot  of  money 
and  spend  it  extravagantly,  but  who  cares  or  who  no- 
tices ?  He  may  do  a  very  fine  thing,  but  the  man  who 
lives  next  door  to  him  will  never  hear  of  it.  The  note  of 
his  suffering  or  his  happiness  is  not  heard  above  the 
ceaseless  din,  and  his  death  will  be  no  more  than  the 
passing  of  a  dray  horse.  He  may  successfully  pander 
to  fastidious  appetites,  but  does  he  learn  anything  that 
is  worth  while  or  do  anything  that  is  endurable  ?  He 
is  hurried  in  a  rut,  goaded  too  fast  for  reflection,  keyed 
up  to  a  point  where  he  confuses  personal  values.  He  is 
a  drop  of  oil  in  a  mammoth  machine,  or — to  change  the 
figure — he  reminds  one  of  a  bit  of  scurrying  chaff  in  a 
maelstrom.  Aye,  who  ever  heard  of  a  man  in  a  city? 
And  you,  and  you,  know  that  the  narrowest  man 
who  walks  these  streets  is  not  the  denizen  of  Paw 
Creek,  but  the  man  who  has  left  Paw  Creek  and 
smirks  complacently  when  he  returns,  after  having 
served  prenticeship  as  galley  slave  to  metropolitan 
drudgery. 

[156] 


SOUTHERN  LIFE  AND  MANNERS 

The  man  who  is  pitied — how  does  he  fare  ?  He  stays  The 
down  here  and  Hves  what  the  world  terms  a  small  life,  ^^™P^^  ■^"^ 
but  is  his  living  as  narrowed  as  the  city  man  thinks? 
His  amusements  are  limited;  he  is  apt  to  do  the  same 
things  day  after  day,  and  he  is  not  apt  to  make  a  great 
deal  of  money,  but  he  learns  to  know  a  great  many  peo- 
ple, and  to  love  and  be  loved  by  a  few.  He  gets  close  to 
a  scattered  multitude  that  finds  time  to  be  quiet  occa- 
sionally, and  he  sees  people,  not  as  they  seem  to  be,  but 
as  they  are.  If  he  is  happy  there  are  those  who  will  re- 
joice with  him.  If  he  suffers,  men  reach  out  their  hands 
and  touch  him  understandingly.  Be  he  ever  so  small  a 
figure,  his  movements  are  not  unheeded;  and  his  vir-' 
tues,  as  well  as  his  sins,  are  a  matter  of  public  knowl- 
edge. If  he  does  anything  that  is  good  and  praiseworthy 
his  community  knows  it  and  applauds,  and  he  climbs 
not  very  high  on  the  ladder  of  fame  before  his  State  sees 
him  and  nods  approval.  Old  men  and  old  women  stop 
him  and  bless  him  in  memory  of  his  father  and  mother; 
he  knows  a  countless  number  of  babies ;  and  his  neigh- 
bors' dogs  come  out  and  recognize  him  as  a  beloved 
friend.  The  joy  of  his  acquaintances  is  so  near  to  him, 
so  undisguised,  that  he  is  gladdened  with  its  radiance, 
and  his  eyes  are  wet  in  thought  of  their  sorrows.  He 
has  time  for  reflection,  and  he  learns  to  know  his  fellow 
man — know  his  strength  and  his  weaknesses;  learns  to 
commend  the  one  and  condone  the  other.  On  week 
days  he  speaks  to  hundreds  of  people  who  call  him  by 
his  first  name;  on  Sundays  he  worships  with  a  congre- 
gation that  has  known  him  since  he  was  a  babe  in  arms. 
When  he  grows  old  he  is  not  in  the  way,  and  when  he 
[157] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  dies  men  bring  sympathy  to  his  children  and  declare  a 
Simple  Life  common  loss.  Maybe  he,  too,  has  lived  in  a  rut,  but 
he  has  lived  with  his  heart-side  throbbing;  he  has  been 
an  integral  part  of  the  life  that  was  builded  around  him; 
and  the  best  of  him  is  proclaimed  while  he  lives  and 
lives  after  he  dies. 

*  *    * 

Both  types  are  exaggerated,  but  which  of  the  two 
really  lives  the  broader  life  ? 

*  *    * 

And  the  delocalized  Southern  woman  is  a  pitiable, 
abortive  creature.  Mrs.  Pembroke  Jones,  from  this 
State,  and  some  other  women  from  Baltimore,  Rich- 
mond, and  New  Orleans,  are  occasionally  heard  of  in 
the  metropolis,  but  nine  times  out  of  ten  the  Southern 
woman  in  New  York  has  much  less  social  pleasure  than 
she  found  at  home,  and  she  has  no  tale  of  triumph  to 
carry  back  to  the  South.  She  gains,  however,  if  she  ab- 
sorbs the  best  of  life  about  her  without  losing  her  own  in- 
dividuality. But  she  is  lost  if  she  becomes  an  imitative 
onlooker.  Too  often  she  does  this.  This  type  you  also 
know  and  you  don't  like  it — as  a  type.  It  is  tailor-made, 
spick-and-span,  and  conscious  to  a  wonderful  degree. 
It  wears  three  dresses  a  day  down  here  and  talks  New 
York  incessantly — tells  you  about  the  life  there  with  the 
same  gusto  that  one  would  exhibit  in  describing  the 
habits  of  a  newly  discovered  tribe  in  the  South  Sea  Isl- 
ands. "We  do  this  in  New  York,"  or  "We  do  that  in 
New  York" — we,  the  lessees  or  proprietors.  You  know 
the  patronizing  language.  And  then  the  change  in  the 
manner  and  in  the  voice — that  is  simply  horrible.  The 
[158] 


SOUTHERN  LIFE  AND  MANNERS 

best  voice  that  the  Lord  ever  put  into  a  woman's  head  is  The 

the  soft  Southern  accent — the  velvety  voice,  as  Miss    ""^^     ® 

Mary  Johnston  terms  it.    And  this  is  sacrificed  by  a  de- 

locahzed  feminine  product  that  hasn't  even  intelhgence 

enough  to  know  that  it  has  cast  away  its  best  possession. 

"She  has  been  to  the  Big  Place  and  she  has  come  home 

to  see  her  folks,"  and  doesn't  she  usually  worry  you  to 

death  ?   In  all  these  fine  clothes  you  see  unnaturalness. 

The  Southern  woman  is  gone,  and  in  her  stead  you  see 

a  person  who  wraps  her  clothes  around  her  to  show 

curves,  prates  unmusical,  borrowed  speech,  and  looks 

above  the  people  who,  being  merely  natural,  could 

reach  a  social  status  that  she,  an  anomaly,  can  now   ' 

never  hope  to  attain  here,  there,  or  anywhere. 

All  this  is  a  tribute  to  the  folk  who  have  seen,  but  not 
enough;  who  have  travelled,  but  too  little — a  tribute  to 
fledgelings  who  return  with  a  strange,  harsh  crow. 
*    *    * 

Oh,  these  people  who  come  down  here  and  talk  about 
the  big  people  they  know  somewhere  else!  Why? 
Why  ?  You  meet  a  decent  sort  of  chap,  and  just  when 
you  are  beginning  to  like  him  he  clears  his  throat  and 
says,  "That  reminds  me  of  something  Senator  Blank 
said  to  me  once."  And  you  want  to  take  a  club  and 
kill  him.  When  a  man  goes  to  a  strange  place  he  com- 
mits a  fatal  mistake  by  pretending  to  know  anybody 
worth  while  who  lives  elsewhere.  He  may  be  telling 
the  truth  in  his  boast,  but  nobody  believes  him.  This 
particular  kind  of  an  ass  is  getting  to  be  so  common 
around  here.  He  makes  one  weary,  sick.  A  stranger 
has  no  business  with  either  people  or  mighty  friends.  He 
[159] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  is  sized  up  like  any  other  animal,  and  if  he  is  consid- 
Sunple  Life  ^^^^  ^  thoroughbred  it  will  not  be  because  he  named  his 
sire.  Mankind  has  a  varied  creed,  but  all  men,  from 
the  beginning  of  time,  have  had  a  quiet  contempt  for 
any  man  who  bragged  about  birth  or  discussed  his 
nearness  to  the  Distinguished. 

*  *    * 

You  know  the  class.  They  return  overly  dressed  and 
they  don't  know  what  to  do  with  themselves.  They 
work  hard  to  kill  time  in  the  village ;  they  yawn  a  good 
deal;  they  bore  others  and  are  bored.  At  one  time  they 
went  barefooted  in  the  town  or  walked  behind  a  mule 
in  a  furrow,  but  they  can't  understand  now  why  every 
resident  doesn't  sell  out  bag  and  baggage  and  move  to 
New  York.  They  derive  their  only  pleasure  while  here 
from  meeting  some  other  person  who  can  talk  New  York 
with  them,  and,  for  the  edification  of  the  rural  popula- 
tion, they  eagerly  exchange  inane  reminiscences  of 
Weber  &  Fields,  or  of  some  restaurant  where  one  can 
get  a  tip-top  supper  after  the  theatre.  They  have  gone 
from  this  place  and  have  been  jammed  into  some  little 
niche  in  the  metropolis,  and  they  wander  back,  conscious 
of  a  superiority  that  impresses  no  one  else.  In  the  big 
city  they  spend  most  of  their  Hfe  in  offices,  and  in  leisure 
moments  they  move  among  vast  hordes  of  strange  peo- 
ple. They  call  this  living  and  learning;  and  they  go 
back  to  their  birthplaces  to  pity — but,  above  all,  to  be 
pitied. 

*  *    * 

Northern  men  have  voluntarily  come  here  to  live  and 
have  lived  here  contentedly  without   making  unfair 
[i6o] 


SOUTHERN  LIFE  AND  MANNERS 

comparisons.  They  have  been  glad  to  get  the  freer  life  The 
that  allows  time  for  reflection  and  for  the  cultivation  o  ^  ®  ^  ® 
one's  fellow  man.  And  on  the  other  hand,  the  best  men 
in  the  city  are  the  big-lunged  active  fellows  from  the 
country — men  who  absorb  ideas  with  wide-open  eyes 
and  without  being  deceived.  But  the  most  patent  type 
of  ass  that  one  meets  down  here  is  the  country  boy  who 
has  moved  into  the  hurly-burly,  and,  fascinated  and  be- 
wildered by  the  din  about  his  ears,  loses  the  proper 
reckoning  of  the  bigger  social  values.  In  other  words, 
a  native  New  Yorker  or  a  Boston  man  is  not  apt  to  bore 
anybody,  and,  moreover,  he  is  apt  to  be  at  home  every- 
where; but  half  of  the  Southern  boys  who  have  barely 
tasted  New  York  and  return  home  for  the  holidays 
ought  to  be  slain  for  sheer  idiocy  and  conceit. 
*    *    * 

"The  natives  who  go  abroad,  spend  three  months 
travelling  in  Europe,  and  then  return  to  tell  you  about 
the  well-dressed  women  in  Paris,  the  height  of  the  tower 
in  London,  che  pigeons  in  Venice,  or  of  the  nobility  in 
Rome,  are  of  great  educational  benefit  to  the  provincial 
State,"  remarked  the  observant  man.  "One  may  have 
read  much  about  the  interesting  sights  on  the  Continent, 
but  it  is  very  gratifying  to  run  across  a  friend  who  has 
seen  the  things  with  his  own  eyes. 

I  have  noticed  in  recent  times  that  foreign  travel 
doesn't  seem  to  make  as  much  impresssion  upon  North 
Carolinians  as  it  did  in  former  years.  A  quarter  of  a 
century  ago  you  could  count  upon  the  fingers  of  one 
hand  the  natives  who  had  crossed  the  Atlantic.  These 
were  mighty  men  after  they  returned,  and  were  the  cen- 
[i6i] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

tral  figures  wherever  they  went.  'Why,  he's  been  to 
Europe!'  would  be  the  awe-stricken  whisper;  and  then 
everybody  would  hang  on  the  words  of  the  fortunate 
traveller.  Folks  knew  London  through  Dickens,  and 
Egypt  by  the  geographies,  and  personal  testimony  of 
the  existence  of  both  places  was  a  passport  into  any  and 
all  grades  of  society. 

And  foreign  travel  affected  North  Carolinians  more 
in  the  old  days  than  it  does  now.  Why,  there  was  a 
Mecklenburg  man  who  spent  three  weeks  in  Paris,  and 
when  he  came  home  he  couldn't  call  an  apple  by  any- 
thing but  a  French  name.  Another  county  man  who 
stayed  a  year  in  Germany  returned  speaking  broken 
English.  He  would  say:  'Big  gates!  Pass  me — oh, 
donder  and  blitzen,  what  shall  I  say?  Oh,  I  remem- 
ber; pass  me  dot — what  you  call  heem? — dot  bread?' 
And  that  fellow  had  walked  behind  a  mule  in  this  coun- 
ty and  in  Cabarrus  until  he  was  over  twenty  years  old. 
He  was  wonderfully  proficient  with  his  German,  how- 
ever, and  could  spot  out  line  after  line,  from  his  Ollen- 
dorf,  about  the  red  dog  and  the  blue  cat. 

The  Old  There  is  one  type  that  the  writer  rejoices  to  have  seen 
Lady  before  he  dies.  'Tis  the  old  Southern  lady.  In  her  one 
sees  the  elegance  and  composure  of  a  princess.  Viewed 
surface-wise,  she  is  as  a  rare  cameo — Uke  fragile  porce- 
lain in  her  fineness.  In  her  yet  live  sympathy  and  un- 
derstanding ;  and  she  will  not  let  romance  die,  nor  faith, 
nor  the  fair  ideaHzation  of  love.  You  would  like  to 
bend  and  kiss  her  hand — you  know  not  why.  You  m.ay 
seek  her  as  the  best  companion  of  youth;  the  most  tact- 
[162] 


SOUTHERN  LIFE  AND  MANNERS 

f ul  comforter ;  the  tenderest  philosopher.  Her  liking  is 
a  blessing;  her  love,  a  mantle  that  would  shield  from  all 
hurt.  She  exacts  little  and  would  give  so  much;  offer- 
ing the  clean,  unselfish  strength  of  completed  woman- 
hood to  bring  the  peace  that  looks  out  of  her  own  eyes. 
She  is  the  most  wondrous,  yet  the  most  natural  and 
most  graceful,  picture  in  the  South.  You  have  seen 
her — this  old  lady  ?  She  is  very  human  as  she  sits  there 
and  gazes  out  at  the  dying  sun.  And  yet  there  is  about 
her  a  hush,  a  quietude  that  seems  over  and  above  the 
things  of  earth  and  nearest  to  Heaven  itself. 

Mrs.  Patterson  ventured  to  say  that  North  CaroHna  The 
men  have  the  best  manners  in  the  world.  Which  is  q^^q^^^ 
really  equivalent  to  saying  that  the  best  type  of  the  Old  South 
Southern  man  has  the  best  manners  in  the  world.  That 
is  true.  They  are  better  poised,  easier  and  gentler,  have 
nicer  voices,  and  are  more  apt  than  any  other  men  to 
consider  the  Httle  wants  and  finenesses  of  women.  But 
this  is  true,  isn't  it,  Mrs.  Patterson?  The  modern 
Southern  son  hasn't  the  manners  of  his  father.  He 
lacks  something  and  laughs  at  the  lack  of  it.  He  is 
bolder,  and  not  so  composed.  The  old  prints  which 
show  the  features  of  men  of  the  Colonial  days  portray  a 
grave,  distinctive  something  that  might  be  termed  the 
spirit  of  the  Revolution.  That  passed.  On  the  faces 
of  the  ante-bellum  men  there  is  an  expression  just  as 
fine,  but  not  so  severe.  It  is  warmer;  suggests  a  bow 
that  might  have  graced  a  French  salon  in  the  old  re- 
gime ;  speaks  silently  of  velvety  voices  and  utter  defer- 
ence. Does  the  Southern  man  of  the  present  generation 
[163] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

face  this  picture  equably,  appreciatively?  Or  is  man- 
ner a  virtue  that  comes  with  time,  and  is  it  the  rightful 
privilege  of  youth  to  shrug  its  shoulders  at  the  insistent 
courtesy  that  is  worn  so  easily  by  him  whose  eyes  are 
dim  and  whose  hair  shows  the  touch  of  frost?  What 
dignity  will  there  be  in  a  portrait  of  the  present  genera- 
tion? The  writer  has  seen,  with  curious,  democratic 
eyes,  a  prince  and  a  good  many  noblemen.  They 
seemed  not  to  be  grandees.  They  were  not  fussy  or 
haughty.  They  had  the  same  simple  manner  that  is 
worn  by  the  older  gentlemen  of  the  South.  And,  mark 
you  this,  the  Southerner  can  uncover  his  head  as  the 
social  peer  of  any  living  man.  At  least,  his  father  can. 
The  standard  of  manners  may  never  change,  though  it 
may  be  lowered.  It  is  being  lowered  with  an  ignorant 
laugh.  Watch  the  maid  and  the  man  on  the  street  and 
then  observe  how  old  people  speak  together.  And  the 
laugh  must  give  way  to  a  sigh. 

Provincial-  Outsiders  sometimes  laugh  at  the  "yes,  ma'ams" 
^^^  and  the  "yes,  sirs"  of  the  South,  and  it  is  noticed  that 
frequently  Southern  boys  and  girls  who  attend  the 
Northern  schools  come  back  to  face  the  aged  with  a  too- 
simple  "yes"  or  "no."  Lord  forbid  that  the  terms 
should  pass.  They  belong  to  the  South — belong  to 
Thomas  Nelson  Page's  women;  they  are  part  of  the 
speech  of  the  hovel  and  the  pundit  caste.  The  words 
are  used  most  prettily  by  young  women  to  old  women, 
and  are  the  pecuHar  property  of  the  rich,  soft  Southern 
voice.  They  are  the  young  man's  quiet  show  of  defer- 
ence to  the  old  man;  the  old  man's  occasional  proffer 
[164] 


SOUTHERN  LIFE  AND  MANNERS 

of  dignified  politeness  to  the  young  man.  This  speech 
— this  habit  of  language  that  was  learned  in  the  old,  old 
house  with  the  big  white  pillars — can  only  be  used  prop- 
erly and  gracefully  down  here.  And  it  must  always  be 
used  down  here. 

"There's  a  revolution  in  this  State,"  said  a  man  the  The  Educa- 
other  day.  "  It  is  quiet  but  unmistakable.  North  Car- ^^^^^j^j 
olina  is  leaving  the  back  seat  of  illiteracy,  and  the  peo- 
ple— and  especially  the  young  men — are  thinking  for 
themselves.  The  revolution  is  along  educational  lines 
and  will  result  in  independence  of  thought.  Ten  years 
ago  it  was  an  easy  matter  to  draw  the  applause  of  a  large 
crowd  by  a  rancorous  partisan  speech.  That  kind  of 
talk  met  with  no  favor  in  the  last  few  political  cam- 
paigns, and  will  be  coolly  received  in  the  future.  The 
people  are  fairer  and  honester  in  politics.  The  spread 
of  schools  and  increased  reading  have  caused  individual 
opinion  to  be  more  pronounced  and  more  reliable.  In 
other  words,  che  masses  of  the  people  are  tired  of  having 
leaders,  whether  in  poHtics  or  business  or  other  matters, 
think  for  them.  The  time  is  coming  when  the  yeU  of 
prejudice  and  little  interest  will  act  as  a  boomerang. 
The  revolution  is  reason.  The  curse  of  the  State  is  the 
cheap  politician,  and  he  will  be  the  victim  of  the  revo- 
lution." 

The  Confederate  veterans  who  returned  yesterday  The  Thin 
from  the  reunion  at  New  Orleans  were  as  pleased  as    ^^^    ^°® 
school  boys  over  their  trip.    It  seemed  to  revive  in  them 
youth  that  easily  resists  the  heavy  hand  of  time.    Yet  a 
[165] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  Thin  quarter  of  a  century  hence  weekly  papers  here  and 
Gray  Line  ^j^^j-g  [^  ^j^g  South  will  display  headlines  over  an  article 
which  will  relate  that  one — just  the  scattered  single  one 
— veteran  still  lives  and  remembers  clearly  some  part 
of  the  great  struggle  between  the  States.  The  thin  gray 
line  is  vanishing  rapidly,  beautifully;  and  as  the  years 
pass  one  sees  that  smaller  and  smaller  places  may  hold 
all  that  is  left  of  a  host  that  once  made  a  continent 
tremble  with  its  march. 

Freedom  "Speakers  and  writers  who  look  back  upon  the  pres- 
ent year  in  North  Carolina  may  wisely  conclude  that 
they  had  better  be  careful  about  what  they  say  or 
write,"  said  the  observant  resident.  "There  have  been 
vast  liberty  of  speech  and  vast  liberty  of  criticism ;  and 
more  than  once  the  pulpit  and  the  press  have  turned  in 
full  cry  upon  a  man  and  have  tried  to  hound  him  off 
the  face  of  the  earth.  But  a  man  needn't  be  afraid  un- 
less he  ought  to  be  afraid.  He  can  be  as  bold  and  radi- 
cal as  he  pleases,  but  if  he  has  common  sense  and  tries 
to  be  fair  his  utterances  will  not  hurt  him  in  the  long 
run.  The  intemperate  fool  and  the  insincere  extremist 
are  the  fellows  who  sink  under  attack.  In  other  words, 
all  this  war  of  words  and  invectives  needn't  make  any- 
body feel  frightened  or  pessimistic  about  the  liberty  of 
the  press  or  the  liberty  of  the  pulpit.  Every  man  holds 
it  a  privilege  to  cuss  the  other  man  when  he  pleases,  and 
he  is  apt  to  do  this  publicly  when  he  is  given  opportu- 
nity, but  the  man  who  has  provocation  to  speak  can  snap 
his  fingers  contemptuously  at  all  the  yelping  crews  of 
critics.  The  public  is  not  going  to  misunderstand;  and 
[i66] 


SOUTHERN  LIFE  AND  MANNERS 

every  unjust  attack  upon  a  man  helps  him  finally.  'Be  Freedom 
sure  you  are  right  and  then  go  ahead*  is  a  maxim  that  °  P*^*^ 
people  quote  sagely,  and  every  man  imagines  that  he  is 
the  only  man  who  can  live  up  to  it.  But  if  you  try  to  be 
right  you  are  safe  enough.  Any  man  who  dares  to  raise 
his  head  above  the  commonplace  will  find  people  who 
are  ready  to  slap  his  face,  but  if  he  is  unafraid  and 
speaks  truth  as  his  own  heart  and  mind  teach  it  to  him 
he  can  die  triumphant  over  wiser  men  and  the  fools  who 
would  badger  him  by  disagreement." 


[167] 


CHAPTER  X 


ANECDOTES 


Not  a  Maybe  you  have  heard  this  joke  before,  but  no  mat- 
®®  ^®  ter.  A  young  couple  went  on  their  honeymoon  and 
stopped  at  a  hotel.  He  went  downstairs  to  smoke.  He 
came  back  in  a  dreamy,  sentimental  mood,  and,  open- 
ing a  door,  looked  into  dark  space. 

"Honey,"  said  he. 

There  was  no  reply. 

"Honey,"  he  cried  again. 

Silence. 

"Honey,"  he  said  in  a  louder  voice. 

Then 

A  bass  voice  came  from  the  blackness,  saying:  "This 
ain't  no  beehive,  you  dam'  fool.    It's  a  bath  room." 

Outflanked  Col.  Peter  Akers,  the  celebrated  auctioneer,  who  was 
in  Charlotte  last  week,  tells  a  story  that  he  declares  is 
original  and  has  never  been  pubhshed.  He  was  a  Con- 
federate soldier  and  fought  under  Stonewall  Jackson, 
and  loves  most  to  talk  of  that  leader. 

"Jackson,"  said  he,  "was  the  greatest  military  gen- 
ius the  world  has  ever  seen.    With  a  handful  of  bare- 
footed men  he  flanked  large  armies  and  whipped  three 
[i68] 


ANECDOTES 

or  four  armies  in  a  day.     His  genius  was  displayed 
oftenest  in  that  flank  movement. 

''When  he  died,  St.  Peter  sent  two  angels  for  him. 
They  searched  the  field,  the  hospitals — the  whole  army, 
but  could  not  find  him.  They  returned  and  told  this  to 
St.  Peter.  Said  he, '  Why,  he  has  flanked  you  both  and 
has  been  here  six  hours.' " 

Addref:sing  a  select  audience  the  other  day,  Mr.  A  Remark- 
George  Stephens  said:  "A  friend  of  mine  once  bought  ®  °°^ 
a  Texas  pony  that  was  covered  with  hair  so  long  that  it 
trailed  on  the  ground.  He  told  his  man  to  cut  off  the 
hair  and  bring  the  beast  around  to  be  inspected.  His 
directions  were  obeyed  and  the  pony  was  soon  clipped 
clean.  He  was  the  most  remarkable  looking  thing  you 
ever  saw.  From  his  head  to  his  tail  he  was  covered 
with  X,  y,  z,  and  other  letters — marks  of  branding.  'I 
perceive,'  said  my  friend,  'that  this  Texas  steed  is  suf- 
fering from  an  eruption  of  quadratics.' "  Mr.  Stephens 
paused,  turned  around  once,  and  he  was  alone. 

There  is  something  pathetic  in  the  story  in  The  Anticlimax 
Stanley  Enterprise  about  the  doctor  who  murdered  two 
partridges,  thinking  they  were  hurting  his  crop.  He 
found,  however,  that  their  craws  were  full  of  cinch- 
bugs  and  cut-worms — and  nothing  more.  After  the 
birds  were  little  corpses  the  doctor  found  that  they  were 
his  good  friends — had  done  nothing  but  spend  their 
time  in  destroying  the  enemies  of  his  crops.  Poor  little 
Bob  Whites — poor  little  victims  of  ruthless  man's  con- 
ceited power!  They  were  slain  out  of  season — in  the 
[169] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

heyday  of  love-time.  Ah,  what  a  chance  were  here  for 
a  tender  poem  were  it  not  for  the  cinch-bugs  and  cut- 
worms. "He  died,"  a  letter  once  ran,  "in  peace  and 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  Great  Beyond;  he  died  of 
cholera  morbus." 

Aji  Inter-  Some  one  said  the  other  day  that  ex-President  Cleve- 
cievelaiid  ^^^  never  forgot  anything,  and  this  reminded  the  writer 
of  an  incident  which  may  be  mentioned,  with  an  apology 
for  ringing  in  his  own  personality  and  that  of  two  other 
North  Carolinians,  He  was  with  his  father  and  Sena- 
tor Ransom  when  they  called  on  Mr.  Cleveland  in 
Washington  during  his  second  administration.  In  the 
course  of  the  conversation  Mr.  Cleveland  said: 

"Judge  Avery,  what  sort  of  a  man  is  Mr.  Blank?" 
Mr.  Blank  was  pretty  well  known  as  a  candidate  for  a 
certain  appointive  office.  Before  Judge  Avery  could 
reply  Senator  Ransom  said: 

"Wait  a  minute.  Tell  him  the  truth  and  the  whole 
truth,  the  good  and  the  bad — all  you  know.  Let  me 
tell  you  something.  Sometimes  I  have  come  into  this 
room  here  and  have  asked  Mr.  Cleveland  to  give  an 
office  to  a  certain  man.  I  have  praised  the  man  up  to 
the  skies — credited  him  with  all  the  virtues  and  no  faults. 
And  then  the  Old  Man  (pointing  to  Mr.  Cleveland) 
would  say: 

"'But,  Ransom,  didn't  your  man  steal  a  sheep  on 
such  and  such  a  day,  in  such  and  such  a  place — or  some- 
thing like  that?'  And  the  man  had  stolen  the  sheep," 
concluded  Senator  Ransom.  While  Senator  Ransom 
was  speaking  Mr.  Cleveland  looked  at  him  with  an  ap- 
[170] 


ANECDOTES 

preciative  smile  on  his  face.  Then  he  turned  to  Judge 
Avery  with  a  question  mark  in  his  eyes,  but  said  noth- 
ing. And  Judge  Avery,  of  course,  proceeded  to  declare 
that  if  the  gentleman  in  question  had  stolen  a  sheep,  it 
was  a  very  small  sheep  indeed,  and  should  not  be  reck- 
oned with  in  the  judgment  of  a  man  who  despised  mut- 
ton on  principle. 

"Tom  Reed,  the  Republican  leader,  is  an  oddly  They  Got 
frank,  attractive  man,"  said  Mr.  D.  A.  Tompkins.  ^^"^  ^°°''y 
"When  he  was  Speaker  of  the  House  I  was  one  of  a 
committee  that  went  to  Washington  to  ask  a  $250,000 
congressional  appropriation  for  the  Atlanta  Expositi-on. 
We  had  an  audience  with  Reed  and  briefly  stated  our 
wishes.  '  Why,  certainly.  I'll  help  you  to  get  the  mon- 
ey," said  the  Speaker.  'And  you'll  get  it,  too.  You 
dear  Southern  people  so  often  come  up  here  and  make 
demands  on  an  abstract  principle  of  your  rights  that  it 
is  a  relief  and  a  pleasure  to  listen  to  those  who  discuss 
only  their  interests  and  want  the  government  to  aid 
those  interests.'  And  Mr.  Reed  saw  that  the  money  was 
forthcoming  as  soon  as  possible,"  added  Mr.  Tompkins. 

"What  do  animosity  mean?"  said  a  Charlotte  serv-  Repartee 
ant  girl. 

The  meaning  of  the  word  was  explained. 

"Well,  I  jess  wanted  to  know.    I  was  er  talkin'  to  er 
fancy  nigger  last  night  and  he  said : 

"'Does  de  pleasures  of  de  evenin'  excite  your  ani- 
mosity?'   En  he  had  me." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

[171] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

"I  said:  'Dey  sho'  do  reprehend  my  sagacity.'   Nen 
I  had  him." 

He  Paid  for  Rev.  Plato  T.  Durham,  teacher  of  Bible  in  Trinity 
^^  ^^®  College,  studied  theology  in  New  York  and  elsewhere, 
but  it  was  while  in  New  York  that  he  began  thinking  of 
the  Waldorf-Astoria.  He  was  vigorous  and  young,  and, 
as  the  Iredell  County  gentleman  puts  it,  he  was  usually 
hungry  for  something  to  eat.  He  made  up  his  mind  that 
some  day  he  would  stroll  down  to  the  Waldorf  and  order 
a  big,  fine,  handsome  meal,  including  the  French  dishes. 
Finally  he  made  the  trip.  He  turned  up  his  nose  at  the 
smartly  dressed  servants,  looked  hlase,  and  summoned 
a  yawn  or  two  to  the  rescue.  A  dignified  waiter  handed 
to  him  a  menu  card.  He  gazed  upon  it  listlessly  and  his 
mind  went  blank.  Mr.  Durham  read  down  the  printed 
sheet.  He  was  hungry.  Gilded  lights  shone  about 
him.  The  tall  waiter  leaned  over  attentively.  Mr. 
Durham  cleared  his  throat  delicately,  reahzing  just 
where  the  French  accent  should  fall,  and  then  said 
sternly : 

"Waiter,  you  may  bring  me  a  huckleberry  pie." 
The  waiter  seemed  dazed,  but  departed.  Mr.  Durham 
wished  to  crawl  under  the  table  to  hide  his  shame.  But 
the  deed  was  done.  Here  in  a  second  he,  who  had  gone 
barefooted  in  huckleberry  patches  in  his  childhood  but 
had  never  thought  of  a  huckleberry  in  ten  years,  had 
been  smitten  by  the  latent  childhood  in  him,  and  while 
the  voice  of  a  bejewelled  blonde  in  a  room  across  the 
way  was  singing  classic  song  there  he  was  a-sitting  and 
a-waiting  for  a  huckleberry  pie.  Oh,  he  stood  by  his 
[172] 


ANECDOTES 

guns  and  ate  the  pie.  He  found  it  was  a  seventy-five- 
cent  huckleberry  pie.  He  tipped  the  waiter  and  strode 
back  to  the  college,  where  he  ate  corned  beef  with  a  full 
heart. 

Major  O.  M.  Sadler  stood  at  the  square  and  expressed  Epitaphs 
his  opinion  of  the  weather  after  the  manner  of  an  old 
Jack  Tar  who  was  rounding  the  cape  in  a  storm.  He 
added  that  he  didn't  like  epitaphs.  "  Give  me,"  he  said, 
"a  few  flowers,  but  no  words.  The  only  epitaph  that 
ever  appealed  to  me  very  much  was  this : 

"'Here  lies  the  body  of  John  Smith,  accidentally 
shot  as  a  mark  of  affection  by  his  brother  Jim — with 
one  of  Colt's  revolvers,  old  kind,  brass  mounted,  and 
of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven.' " 
Hs     *     * 

"The  only  trouble  about  that  epitaph,"  said  Col. 
John  R.  Morris,  "is  its  lack  of  the  pathetic.  It  con- 
tains a  beautiful  sentiment,  but  it  hasn't  the  mournful 
ring  that  adds  so  much  to  the  effect  of  an  affectionate 
epitaph.  Let  me  call  your  attention  to  the  tenderness 
in  the  following  statement  which  I  found  on  a  tomb- 
stone : 

"'Here  lies  the  mortal  remains  of  John  Henderson, 
whose  parents  were  drowned  while  on  their  way  to 
America.    Had  they  lived  they  would  have  been  buried 
here  also.' " 

"Or  this 

" '  Little  Johnnie  Leach  has  flitted  from  our  reach, 
He  went  away  beyond  the  shining  river, 
But  we  know  he's  better  off,  for  he  had  an  awful  cough, 
And  was  threatened  with  congestion  of  the  liver.' " 

[173] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  Judge's  If  you  ever  happen,  by  any  chance,  to  find  Judge  F.  I. 
Memory  Qg^orne  in  a  mood  when  he  is  not  thinking  about  some- 
thing else  and  wants  to  talk  to  you,  it  will  be  worth  while 
to  listen  to  what  he  has  to  say.  He  is  a  man  who  re- 
members everything  he  read  twenty-five  years  ago,  and 
laughingly  agrees  with  Sir  William  Hamilton's  idea 
that  one  forgets  nothing,  though  he  may  not  recall  ev- 
erything that  he  remembers.  The  judge  went  to  Ari- 
zona and  back  recently  without  seeing  or  remembering 
a  blessed  thing,  but  he  walked  into  the  shop  the  other 
day  with  his  head  tilted  back,  muttering:  '"A  better 
bad  habit  of  swearing,  a  better  bad  habit  of  swearing' 
than — than — what?    That's  what  I  want  to  know." 

"Steady,  judge.    What's  up?" 

"Nothing;  'a  better  bad  habit  of  swearing?'  Get 
me  'The  Merchant  of  Venice.' "  The  play  was  brought 
to  him.  As  he  hurriedly  turned  the  leaves  of  the  book 
he  muttered  under  his  breath,  "Talk  to  me  about  mod- 
ern authors — any  authors.  Where  is  there  anything  like 
the  description  of  Absalom: 

"'From  the  sole  of  his  foot  even  to  the  crown  of  his 
head  there  was  no  blemish  in  him.' 

"Or  this: 

"'And  Jacob  served  seven  years  for  Rachel;  and 
they  seemed  unto  him  but  a  few  days  for  the  love  he 
had  to  her.' 

"Oh,  here  it  is,"  said  the  judge,  and  he  read  aloud 
Portia's  words: 

"'He  hath  a  better  bad  habit  of  frowning  than  the 
Count  Palatine.' 

"And  I  would  have  sworn  that  it  was  'swearing'  and 
[174] 


ANECDOTES 

not  'frowning,' "  declared  Judge  Osborne  with  a  dreamy 
look  on  his  face.  "You  see,  I  have  been  listening  to  a 
friend  of  mine  talk,  and  his  words  reminded  me  of  the 
quotation," 

Will  somebody  please  tell  the  truth  about  the  cow  More 
and  her  cud  ?  In  this  country,  when  a  cow  suddenly  jhan^^  ^ 
grows  pale  and  lethargic  and  ceases  to  do  business  with  Politics 
the  water  wagon,  some  old  negro  comes  along  and  says, 
"She's  lost  her  cud,"  and  straightway  he  fastens  a  lot 
of  greasy  dish-rags  to  a  hoe  handle  and  rams  the  rags 
down  the  animal's  throat.  At  once  the  cow  resumes 
her  complexion  and  her  connection  with  the  dairy,  and, 
notwithstanding  her  hereditary  loss  of  upper  teeth, 
chews  away  as  vigorously  as  a  gum-girl.  Is  this  fashion 
of  loading  a  cow  with  old  rags  a  superstition,  or  does 
her  internal  machinery  really  require  occasional  doses 
of  red  flannel  ?  And  when  the  old-time  negroes — the 
only  genuine  cow  doctors — die,  what  in  the  world  will 
become  of  cows  who  are  unfortunate  enough  to  lose 
their  cuds  ?  The  Old  Man  declares  that  this  subject  is 
more  interesting  to  him  than  politics. 

As  a  rule,  women  do  not  make  good  witnesses,  by  the  Col.  Jones 
way.  They  get  nervous.  This  is  especially  true  about  ^itnes^s 
women  who  know  nothing  about  court-rooms  except 
from  reading  newspapers,  and  imagine  that  lawyers  earn 
their  living  by  the  merciless  examination  of  witnesses. 
This  fact  was  illustrated  a  year  or  so  ago  when  the  Sum- 
merrow-Baruch  libel  case  was  being  tried.  One  of  the 
witnesses  was  a  Charlotte  lady  who  happened  to  be  in 
[175] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Col.  Jones  the  Baruch  store  when  Mrs.  Summerrow  received  the 
Witness  ^^^^g^^^  insults.  The  examination  of  the  witness  had 
been  delayed  for  two  days,  and  when  she  at  length  came 
to  the  stand  she  was  visibly  agitated.  One  understood 
her  feeling.  She  imagined  that  some  one  intended  to 
twist  her  up  and  force  her  to  seem  to  tell  an  untruth. 
And,  in  spite  of  her  fright,  it  could  be  seen  that  she  had 
determined  that  she,  a  lone  woman  who  was  about  to 
be  badgered  and  browbeaten,  should  not  be  made 
to  tell  a  lie.  The  examination  was  something  like 
this: 

"Madam,"  said  Col.  Hamilton  C.  Jones — a  most 
courtly  man — "please  go  ahead  and  tell  what  happened 
in  the  store.    Tell  it  in  your  own  way,  and " 

"Now,  Colonel  Jones,"  interrupted  the  witness, 
"don't  try  to  lay  any  trap  for  me.  I  came  here  to  tell 
the  truth  and  the  truth  I  will  tell,  for " 

"But,  madam,"  interrupted  Col.  Jones,  "I  assure 
you " 

"Colonel  Jones,  don't  attempt  to  get  me  excited  or 
mix  me  up.  I  don't  know  much  about  this  case, 
and " 

"Madam,"  said  the  colonel  a  trifle  sternly,  "I  have 
no  wish  to  mix  you  up.  All  I  want  you  to  do  is  to  give 
a  plain  recital  of  the  facts.  Now  please  go  ahead  and 
give  your  testimony.  What  took  place  in  the  store  at 
the  time  you  were  there?" 

"There  you  are.  Colonel  Jones,  there  you  are  trying 
to  get  me  bothered,"  said  the  witness,  who  was  tremen- 
dously excited.    "If  you  will  only  let  me  alone " 

"But,  madam,  I  am  doing  nothing  to  you.  You  are 
[176  J 


ANECDOTES 

a  witness  in  this  case,  and  I  must  ask  you  to  proceed 
with  your  evidence." 

"Oh,  I  see  you  have  laid  a  trap  for  me,  Colonel 
Jones.  I  know  I  am  only  a  woman  and  don't  know 
anything  about  courts,  but  I  would  have  thought,  Col- 
onel Jones " 

"But,  madam " 


"I  beg  of  you.  Colonel  Jones,  not  to  persist  in  trying 
to  make  me  tell  a  lie.    As  I  said  before " 

"Madam^  I " 

"I  came  here  as  a  witness  who  had  no  feeling  one 
way  or  the  other,  and " 

"But,  madam,  I  only  want  you  to  tell  the  truth,  and 
I  am  doing  nothing  to  disturb  you." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  are.  Colonel  Jones — you  know  you 
are.  I  can  plainly  see  that  you  have  made  up  your 
mind  to  catch  me  in  some  way,  and  I  must  request  you 
not  to  do  that,  Colonel  Jones,  for " 

"Stand  aside,  madam,"  said  Colonel  Jones,  as  he 
mopped  the  perspiration  from  his  brow. 

As  Mayor  Brown  sat  in  his  private  ofSce  Monday,  Down  on 
reading  a  copy  of  Balzac  in  the  original  and  occasionally    ^^"'^ 
reflecting  on  the  possibilities  of  frog  culture,  a  resident 
entered  hurriedly  and  in  an  excited  manner  exclaimed: 

"Voila!" 

"Voila  yourself,"  said  the  mayor  pleasantly. 

"Bon  soir,"  said  the  visitor. 

"Bon  jour,"  observed  the  mayor. 

"  J'ai  bonne  cause,"  declared  the  visitor.  "  Out  at  the 
park  auditorium  they  will  play  to-night  'Camille,'  the 
12  [177J 


rOLE  COMMENTS 

Down  on  naughty  production  of  Alexander  Dumas,  fils.    Oh,  so 
French  Art  jj^proper,  SO  shocking,  so-er-en  dishabille.     So-er-vif ! 
Cut  it  out,  else  we  become  corrupt." 

"Nom  de Voila!     Gargon!"  said  the  mayor; 

and  then  he  sent  for  Chief  of  Police  Irwin  and  instructed 
him  to  go  out,  tout  frais  fait,  watch  the  "lady  of  the  ca- 
melias"  and  corral  all  exposed  portions  of  the  French 
drama. 

"Oui,  oui,"  said  the  chief  in  the  most  excellent 
French.  "Nous  verrons,"  added  the  chief  sternly.  "  Je 
main  tiendrai  le  droit.  Je  suis  pret,"  concluded  the  offi- 
cer as  he  departed  to  gaze  upon  Camille. 

An  immense  audience  filled  the  auditorium.  The 
fashionable  folk  who  occupied  seats  paid  ten  cents  per 
head.  Those  who  stood  up  were  charged  nothing.  Do 
you  know  "  Camille"  ?  Well,  the  play  offers  refinement 
and  fascination  in  a  setting  of  wickedness.  Your  inter- 
pretation of  it  is — as  you  like.  The  audience  whooped 
its  approval,  and  gave  the  first  curtain  calls  of  the  sea- 
son. "The  Latta  Park  Stock  Company  played  the 
thing  as  well  as  the  Olga  Nethersole  company,"  proudly 
said  Mr.  F.  D.  Sampson,  who  manages  the  actor  peo- 
ple.   And  there  was  no  argument. 

"If  a  woman  comes  out  there  on  that  stage  without 
any — nous  verrons,"  said  the  chief,  tres  chretienne- 
ment.  "In  other  words,  what  I  will  do  for  Camille  will 
be  a  plenty,"  observed  the  officer. 

"  JoH,"  said  Officer  Summerrow,  from  Newton,  who 
also  spoke  most  excellent  French  and  is  an  authority  on 
the  Gallic  school  of  art. 

"Oui,"  said  the  chief  scornfully. 
[178] 


ANECDOTES 

The  play  proceeded,  not  merrily,  of  course,  but  to  the 
entire  satisfaction  of  the  spectators,  and  the  actors.  The 
latter  knew  the  object  of  the  chief's  visit,  and  watched 
him  narrowly.  To  relieve  the  exciting,  not  to  say  mor- 
bid, tension  of  the  play,  they  rigged  a  woman  up  for  a 
vaudeville  stunt  which  spelled  more  or  less  legs.  And, 
for  the  sake  of  the  law,  they  overdraped  her  until  she 
was  fashioned  to  widow's  weeds.  There  could  be  no 
protest  over  any  feature  of  the  evening. 

"I  will  return  tout  de  suite — if  not  sooner,"  ejaculated 
the  chief.  "Every  now  and  then  I  was  sure  somebody 
would  bust  over  and  do  something  downright  wicked, 
but,  voila,  I  was  disappointed.  Tracassarie  all!  Yet  I 
am  toujours  pret  to  pull  Camille  or  Lucille  or  Maud  or 
PhylUs  or  just  any  of  'em." 

"Voila,"  exclaimed  the  mayor  when  he  heard  the 
chief's  report. 

"Voila  tout,"  said  Chief  Irwin. 

"N'  importe,"  remarked  the  fastidious  resident. 

"Good  mornin',  Carrie,"  said  a  voice  from  the 
Tombs. 

Vive  la  Peruna! 

"There's  going  to  be  an  afternoon  tea  at  my  house,"  The  After- 
said  a  resident  yesterday,  "and  I  am  going  to  leave  °°°^    ®^ 
home.    An  afternoon  tea  is  a  place  where  those  present 
lose  their  digestion  and  those  absent  their  reputation. 
I  prefer  to  lose  my  reputation." 

"Forty  naught,  naught,  one,  please,  central."  Corrected 

"You  mean  forty,  aught,  aught  one?" 
[179] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

"Yes,  thank  you." 
"You  are  welcome." 

Alas!  Since  the  battle  of  Gettysburg,  Col.  H.  C.  Jones  has 
shot  quail,  landed  bass,  and  done  everything  else  under 
a  silk  hat  that  had,  somehow,  become  a  part  of  himself. 
And  now  he  wears  a  Panama.  Displace  a  crown  for 
tinsel — alas!  alas! 


[i8o] 


CHAPTER  XI 

OBSERVATIONS   ON  LITERATURE 

"The  day  of  dime  novels  has  almost  passed," said  an  The 
observant  resident,  "and  the  glory  of  the  James  boys,  "^®  Novel 
Wild  Bill,  Deadwood  Dick  and  scores  of  other  Western 
desperadoes  is  forgotten  history.  From  the  time  of 
James  Fenimore  Cooper  until  ten  or  fifteen  years  ago 
this  country  was  flooded  with  paper-backed,  lurid  tales 
which  teemed  with  blood-spilling  and  hairbreadth  es- 
capes in  every  chapter,  and  handled  the  wonderful  ex- 
ploits of  impossible  New  York  detectives  and  the  ad- 
venture and  scalping  parties  on  the  plains  with  equal 
ease.  The  stories  were  the  curse  of  nearly  every  school. 
Boys  read  them  at  home  when  they  should  have  been 
studying  th'^ir  lessons,  absorbed  them  stealthily  during 
school  hours,  and  discussed  them  at  recess.  The  Frank 
Reade  Company,  the  Beadles,  and  other  cheap  book- 
houses  made  immense  fortunes,  and  received  a  very 
large  proportion  of  the  pocket  money  of  boys  from 
Maine  to  Texas. 

"But  the  dime  novel  doesn't  pass  muster  with  a  gen- 
eration that  places  a  baseball  player  on  a  pedestal, 
nurses  ping-pong  pangs  or  kindred  ailments,  and  splits 
its  hair  in  the  middle  and  goes  to  sit — around  girl  par- 
ties after  fourteen  years  of  age.  Such  boys  are  not  in- 
[i8i] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

terested  in  the  noble  yarn  about  Alkali  Isaac's  destroy- 
ing an  entire  Indian  village  with  his  trusty  bowie  knife. 
They  lack  imagination,  and  don't  care  a  hang  for  the 
details  of  the  Custer  fight,  the  fate  of  the  last  Mohican, 
or  Old  Sleuth's  terrible  fight  with  murderers  in  the 
Bowery.  Modern  boys,  as  a  rule,  don't  read,  and  the 
younger  men  are  little  better.  They  hold  up  Sherlock 
Holmes  as  a  criterion  and  laugh  at  the  old-time  detec- 
tive tragedies;  and  they  dabble  in  the  emotional 
French  school  and  sociological  novels  that  prate  dirty 
realism. 

"Yes,  you  will  see  that  the  genus  of  youth  has 
changed.  Nowadays  Fielding's  Tom  Jones  doesn't 
even  assume  the  dimensions  of  a  ghost,  and  the  vivid 
characters  of  Cooper,  Marryat  and  their  ilk  are  dying. 
And  what  boy  knows  Tom  Sawyer  or  Huckleberry 
Finn?  They  teach  physiology  and  Shylock  in  the 
schools,  and  the  product  cares  for  the  two-step  and  not 
the  deadly  trail  of  the  avenger.  I'm  sorry.  The  dime 
novel,  taken  at  its  worst,  certainly  kept  a  boy's  mind 
active — made  him  think  about  something." 

Books,  Old  The  booksellers  usually  have  to  go  to  the  rear  part  of 
^"  ®^  their  stores  or  upstairs  to  get  a  book  by  an  author  whose 
reputation  is  justly  fixed,  but  they're  selHng  no  end  of 
red  and  blue  and  pink  and  green  books  that  are  written 
by  unknown  people.  Blame  the  prevalent  taste  and  not 
the  booksellers.  The  classics  sell  in  ten,  twenty  and 
thirty-cent  shape.  The  characters  in  these  are  still  used 
by  our  fathers  and  mothers  for  illustrative  purposes,  but 
we  match  reminiscences  of  cheap  modern  creatures  who 
[182] 


OBSERVATIONS  ON  LITERATURE 

move  vulgarly.  The  best-selling  book  is  Rev.  Tom  Books,  Old 
Dixon's  "The  One  Woman,"  and  the  literary  quahty  ^nd  New 
of  the  author  is  something  ghastly.  The  strongest  novel 
of  the  year,  in  several  continents,  is  Mrs.  Humphry 
Ward's  "Lady  Rose's  Daughter,"  a  superbly  written 
character-sketch  and  a  morbid,  unnatural  book  that  a 
man  wouldn't  care  for  his  sister  to  read.  There's  a 
Carnegie  library  down  the  street  that  has  been  in  opera- 
tion only  a  short  time.  Do  you  know  what  the  majority 
of  people — and  especially  the  younger  people — will  take 
from  there  and  read  ?  The  smelly,  new  books,  of  course. 
This  is  a  cultured  community,  but  the  literary  flavor  is 
less  of  an  inheritance  than  commercial  prosperity.  Who's 
to  talk  book  lore  worth  hearing  after  the  older  genera- 
tion passes  away  ?  Who's  to  replace  these  women  who 
write  Italian  hands,  argue  the  relative  merits  of  the 
greatest  poets,  and  can  reproduce  from  memory  Scott's 
best  style?  Who's  to  hold  up  a  standard  that  under- 
stands— that  rejects  all  that  is  not  fine  and  strong  and 
clean  ?  A  little  while — and  who  will  there  be  down  here 
to  mock  the  loud-hued  books  that  reek  with  tawdry, 
rotten  sentiment  ? 

Oh,  nobody.  And  it  doesn't  make  any  difference, 
does  it  ?  There  is  no  money  in  the  thing,  anyway,  and 
people  can  talk  about  something  else.  Of  course  they 
can  .  .  .  can  talk  of  "pork  and  cabbages  and  kings" 
and  the  boll  weevil  and  lots  of  things  apart  from  Utera- 
ture.  This  protest,  then  ?  Why,  don't  take  it  seriously, 
please.  You  perceive  that  it  filled  a  certain  amount  of 
space  ? 

Voila  tout! 

[183] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  "The  speed  mania  is  the  hoodoo  of  modern  litera- 
Majdac  ^^^^5"  said  the  observant  resident.  "You  are  always 
swearing  at  the  new  pink  and  green  smelly  books,  but 
what  else  can  you  expect  from  authors  who  dictate  to  a 
stenographer?  'Wilhelm  Meister'  cost  Goethe  ten 
years  of  labor.  Imagine  a  modern  writer  working  ten 
months  on  a  book !  Woodrow  Wilson,  Thomas  Nelson 
Page,  Mark  Twain  and  WiUiam  Dean  Howells  are  the 
only  American  writers  who  will  hve  half  a  century 
hence;  and  Edgar  Allan  Poe  is  the  only  big  Hterary 
light  on  this  side  of  the  water  that  will  shine  forever. 
In  this  mad  rush  what  chance  is  there  to  produce  a 
great  writer — who  has  time  to  think  and  prepare  for 
writing?  At  the  Baptist  Convention  here  'The  Little 
Shepherd  of  Kingdom  Come'  was  the  only  book  that 
found  encomiums,  and  the  convention  was  at  a  high 
ebb  of  mentaUty.  The  truth  of  the  matter  is  that  there 
is  no  such  thing  nowadays  as  Hterary  culture  except 
among  old  people ;  and  a  hundred  years  from  now  peo- 
ple will  not  be  caring  to  read  anything  except  the  news- 
papers." 

Characters  Dickens  created  handsome,  Hkable  fellows,  but 
in  Fiction  gtegj-forth  is  his  only  character  that  might  have  been  la- 
belled dangerous  to  woman.  Scott's  men  won  hearts 
with  the  same  finesse  that  they  won  battles.  Thack- 
eray was  an  exact  photographer  and  shows  only  every- 
day types.  Bulwer  Lytton's  lordly  men  are  mourn- 
fully pedantic  and  tiresome,  Eugene  Aram  being  a 
single  exception.  There  is  a  subtle  fascination  about 
the  Richard  Feverel  of  George  Meredith ;  but  the  most 
[184J 


OBSERVATIONS  ON  LITERATURE 

striking  j&gure  of  the  English  school  of  fiction  is  John  Characters 
Rochester  in  Jane  Eyre.  He  is  a  man — all  man ;  fine,  "^  ^^  ^°^ 
faulty,  stern,  tender,  humorous,  intense.  Any  one  who 
reads  Jane  Eyre  must  come  under  the  influence  of  John 
Rochester.  His  was  a  presence  that  must  have  been 
felt  in  any  room;  he  had  all  the  simple  elements  that 
appeal  to  both  women  and  men.  In  all  fiction  he  is  the 
most  vivid,  pulsing  figure. 

*  *    * 

Among  present-day  writers  there  are  only  three  who 
have  the  sure  art  of  portraying  fascinating  men — ^Henry 
Seton  Merriman,  Anthony  Hope  and  Richard  Harding 
Davis.  This  assertion  comes  from  one  who  reckons 
the  three  writers  below  first  class,  but  their  men  are 
clearly  drawn  and  are  the  kind  of  men  that  would  fas- 
cinate women.  Kipling  has  the  queer  power  of  mak- 
ing one  understand  how  his  men  could  chain  and  hold 
forever  one  woman — but  only  one  woman. 

*  *    * 

Apart  from  the  characters  of  Richard  Harding  Davis, 
the  men  in  the  American  school  of  fiction  make  no  par- 
ticular impression  on  the  reader.  They  are  too  unnat- 
ural. Look  back  upon  all  the  American  books  you 
have  read  and  you  are  not  apt  to  recall  a  single  lover 
who  is  worth  the  name.  What  one  is  fascinating? 
Where  is  a  single  one  that  is  half  so  attractive  as  the 
idle,  careless  Van  Bibber  men?  Where  is  one  whose 
charm  is  proved  by  his  creator  ? 

*  *    * 

But  the  writer  did  not  intend  to  be  led  into  the  dis- 
cussion of  a  subject  that  permits  unlimited  room  for 
[185I 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Characters  difference  of  opinion.  In  brief  space  he  has  had  lati- 
in  Fiction  ^^^^  from  St.  Elmo  to  Launcelot,  and  has  merely  voiced 
personal  preference.  Thoughts  of  the  latter-day  men 
who  break  up  happy  homes  was  the  real  reason  for  this 
rumination,  anyway.  And  they  don't  do  it;  that's  the 
blunt  reply  to  The  Gazette.  In  the  smoking  car  you 
have  had  men  who  wore  loud  ties,  and  hats  on  the  back 
of  their  heads,  sit  down  beside  you  and  tell  you  about 
the  wreckage  they  had  created  by  their  contact  with 
the  eternal  feminine.  They  would  have  led  you  to 
believe  that  v/henever  they  entered  a  village  young 
women  followed  them  just  as  the  children  followed 
the  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin.  These  fellows  and  the 
cads  who  stand  in  hotel  lobbies  or  in  the  drinking 
rooms  of  clubs  and  blow  about  their  prowess  with 
women — they  are  all  little  rough  fools  who  would  jar 
the  sensibilities  of  a  washerwoman.  These  reputed,  or 
admitted,  heart-breakers — they  don't  really  do  any  busi- 
ness, to  put  it  crudely.  The  modern  man,  any  way  you 
take  him,  is  not  built  for  a  fascinator.  He  is  a  business 
machine  whose  clothes  are  not  pretty,  whose  muscles 
are  apt  to  be  flabby,  and  who  converses  with  a  woman 
just  as  he  dictates  to  a  typewriter.  If  he  wins  one 
woman  he  is  lucky;  if  he  fascinates  two,  the  world 
holds  up  its  hands  and  sees  not  the  fluke  that  is,  but  the 
fascination  that  exists  in  the  imagination.  Any  man 
can  understand  why  any  other  man  can  fall  in  love  with 
almost  any  woman,  but  no  man  can  understand  why 
any  woman  should  fall  in  love  with  any  man.  Which 
suggests  that  the  writer  may  not  be  altogether  un- 
prejudiced. 

[i86] 


OBSERVATIONS  ON  LITERATURE 

The  judge  was  not  prepared  to  say  what  he  thought  Favorite 
was  the  finest  or  most  expressive  sentence  in  Hterature.     ^^^^S^^ 
Are  you?     It  is  an  interesting  matter  to  puzzle  over. 
For  some   reason  Victor  Hugo's   characterization  of 
Napoleon  has  always  impressed  the  writer  more  than 
anything  he  ever  read : 

"The  mighty  somnambulist  of  a  vanished  dream," 
said  the  French  author  in  speaking  of  Napoleon  after 
the  battle  of  Waterloo. 

*  *    * 

The  best  description  of  anger  is  in  "Hiawatha": 

"And  his  heart  was  hot  within  him; 
Like  a  burning  coal  his  heart  was." 

*  *      * 

Going  to  the  other  extreme,  Tennyson  was  probably 
happiest  in  a  tender  couplet-picture  of  the  effect  of  love. 
Some  one  asked  him  once  what  he  liked  best  in  all  the 
things  he  had  written.     He  picked  up  a  pen  and  wrote : 

"Love  took  up  the  harp  of  hfe  and  smote  on  all  the  chords  with  might, 
Smote  the  chord  of  self,   that,   trembhng,  passed  in  music  out  of 
sight." 

*  *      * 

Apropos  of  Biblical  quotations,  did  you  ever  see  any- 
thing humorous  in  the  Bible  ?  If  you  haven't,  you  read 
the  history  of  Jacob  until  you  come  to  the  place  where 
it  says: 

"And  Jacob  kissed  Rachel,  and  lifted  up  his  voice 
and  wept." 

That  sentence  presents  the  funniest  picture  ever. 
Just  imagine  a  man  walking  up  to  a  strange  woman, 
[187] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

kissing  her  on  the  mouth,  and  then  throwing  back  his 
head  and  bursting  into  tears.  What  an  orful  chump 
Jacob  must  have  seemed  to  Rachel! 

"Reces-  "Kipling  reached  Mitchell  County  in  1898 — that  is, 
^^°wt  "hU  ^^  'Recessional'  arrived  there  that  year,"  said  a  visitor 
County  in  the  city.  "A  certain  newspaper  in  this  State  kept 
ringing  the  changes  on  the  thing  and  the  lawyers  over 
in  the  mountains  got  hold  of  the  poem.  They  worked  it 
to  sensational  advantage,  and  for  four  successive  terms 
of  court  every  lawyer  who  went  before  a  Bakers ville 
jury  was  loaded  with  the  'Recessional.'  You  know, 
nobody  in  the  world  can  speak  like  those  mountain 
lawyers  who  roll  back  their  cuffs  over  the  sleeves  of  their 
long  frock  coats,  and  sweat,  and  talk  at  the  top  of  their 
voices.  They  liked  Kipling,  and  on  a  quiet  day  you 
could  hear  'f^m  screaming  'Lord  God  of  Hosts!'  for 
a  mile,  while  the  jurors  chewed  tobacco  and  wept.  The 
iteration  of  'Lest  we  forget'  in  a  big  voice  has  won 
many  a  verdict  in  a  blockading  case,  and  the  impressive 
conclusion  of  a  peroration  with  'Our  far-flung  battle 
line '  saved  the  day  in  a  murder  trial.  Kipling  became 
the  most  popular  man  in  Mitchell,  and  the  attorney  who 
made  the  most  effective  recitation  of  the  'Recessional' 
was  generally  a  winner.  Matters  came  to  such  a  pass, 
finally,  that  Kipling's  influence  was  felt  even  in  httle 
ejection  cases.  The  situation  was  so  serious  that  the 
judges  decided  that  a  single  'Lest  we  forget'  would  be 
held  as  contempt  of  court.  This  ended  the  reign  of 
Kipling,  which  will  be  memorable  in  the  annals  of 
Mitchell." 

[188] 


OBSERVATIONS  ON  LITERATURE 

Out  on  these  terrible  western-flavored  plays  that  are  The 
forever  dragging  coarse-mannered  men  with  pistols  and  p^cYiorf  "* 
crude  speech  into  drawing  rooms  and  marrying  them 
to  women  who  use  Bostonesey  words  and  wear  resplen- 
dent gowns.  The  Virginian  in  Owen  Wister's  book  was 
all  right ;  but  the  slow-talking  Westerner  with  his  eter- 
nal prate  about  "Mavericks"  and  his  ridiculously 
loving  heart  is  getting  to  be  offiy  tiresome.  It  is  a  pity 
that  Tim  Murphy  has  such  an  absurd  character  to  im- 
personate. The  cowboy  is  being  overdone — exalted  too 
much.  He  is  so  sweet  and  childish  and  tries  so  hard  to 
keep  from  eating  up  other  people  that  he  ought  to  fly  in 
with  wings  strapped  to  him — if  he  could  only  manage 
to  conceal  his  pistols  for  a  minute  or  so.  The  cowboy 
plays  and  these  ghastly  things  that  picture  domestic 
scenes  in  New  England  don't  seem  to  go  down  here, 
somehow  or  other.  Even  the  London  society  plays  are 
more  popular.  In  these  everybody  is  dehciously  and 
consistently  wicked,  and  no  wild  Indian  types  mar  har- 
mony by  trying  to  do  refined  stunts.  The  cowboys  are 
the  limit. 

In  an  article  in  Ainslee's  Magazine  Miss  Geraldine  "The  Age 
Bonner  discusses  "The  Age  of  Charm"  in  women,  and  ^'^^^^ 
gives  a  very  interesting  running  summary  of  the  ages  of 
the  famous  women  in  fiction  and  history.  Sir  Walter 
Scott's  heroines  were  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  old; 
those  of  Thackeray  and  Dickens  twenty.  Jane  Eyre 
was  only  nineteen  years  of  age,  "an  error  in  art  for 
which  the  fashion  of  the  day  is  responsible."  JuHet, 
the  only  heroine  in  Shakespeare  whose  age  is  given, 
[189] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

was  fourteen  years  old.  Balzac  surprised  the  world  by 
introducing  to  it  still  fresh  and  bewitching  women  of 
thirty.  Diane  de  Poicters  and  Madame  de  Maintenon 
were  forty;  and  "the  women  of  the  salons  and  the  Rev- 
olution continued  these  traditions  of  an  irresistible  fas- 
cination at  the  age  of  autumnal  maturity."  Anne  Bol- 
eyn  was  twenty-four  years  old.  Stella  was  loved  best  by 
Dean  Swift  when  she  was  nearly  forty.  Venus  de  Milo 
was  thirty-two,  and  Thackeray  is  the  expert  authority 
who  declares  that  thirty-two  is  the  age  when  a  woman 
is  in  her  perfect  moment  of  full  bloom.  Cleopatra  was 
thirty-eight  when  she  and  Antony  "kissed  away  king- 
doms" ;  and  Helen  of  Troy  was  nearly  forty  when  Paris 
was  smitten  with  her  beauty. 

Wagner's  There  are  a  number  of  the  best  critics  who  consider 
iSe"  "l"^^  Simple  Life,"  by  Charles  Wagner,  the  strongest 
of  the  new  books  that  are  having  a  large  sale  at  the  pres- 
ent time.  The  purpose  of  the  book  is  attractive  enough 
surely.  It  is  a  "plea  for  simphcity  in  life — for  simple 
thoughts,  simple  words,  simple  needs,  simple  beauty." 
There  is  such  a  nauseating  amount  of  the  other  sort  of 
thing.  Yet  pretence  never  deceived  anybody.  The 
real  heart  of  the  man  shows  in  spite  of  himself.  That  is 
sad,  and  sometimes  exposes  a  hypocrite.  Brains  are 
not  rated  for  more  than  they  are  worth,  and  thus  is  given 
continual  opportunity  to  laugh  at  pretenders.  Every- 
body who  mixes  with  the  world  is  estimated  at  a  true 
valuation.  Everybody  who  isn't  simple  is  a  fool.  There 
are  no  bounds  to  the  application  of  the  text.  It  demands 
daily  humihty  for  one's  self  and  charity  for  one's  neigh- 
[190] 


OBSERVATIONS  ON  LITERATURE 

bor.  One  person  in  a  thousand  wants  a  simple  life,  and 
everybody  bows  before  it  in  admiration.  Who  do  you 
know  that  is  simple,  really  simple — leads  a  simple  life  ? 
And  who  is  happy  that  isn't  simple — doesn't  lead  a 
simple  life  ?  The  questions  are  apart  from  the  book — 
just  suggested  by  the  title.  But  who  does  care  for  sim- 
ple words,  simple  thoughts,  simple  beauty  ?  Nowadays 
childhood,  going  into  maturity,  gets  a  training  that  fits 
it  to  give  the  wrong  sort  of  reply. 

"  In  the  Forest  of  Arden,"  a  children's  story  that  Mrs.  Magic 
Margaret  Busbee  Shipp  has  been  writing  for  The  Ob- 
server, is  very  sweet  and  human.  It  shows  genuine  chil- 
dren ;  breathes  a  charming,  natural  prattle.  It  lacked 
only  in  one  point.  In  the  story  nobody  said  to  nobody 
else,  "One  time  there  was  a  bear."  Just  those  words 
were  necessary,  and  the  child  who  has  not  quivered  in 
anticipation  at  the  darksome  sound  of  the  sentence  has 
missed  one  of  the  greatest  pleasures.  Cluster  little  ones 
at  your  knee  and  speak  on  fairies  and  sprites  and 
nymphs  and  godmothers  and  hobgoblins,  and  they  will 
desert  you  in  the  middle  of  your  narrative  at  the  cry  of 
"One  time  there  was  a  bear."  It  is  not  permissible  to 
say,  "In  the  dear,  dead  days  of  long  ago  there  resided  a 
bear,"  or  anything  Hke  that.  You  must  be  very  solemn 
and  dignified  and  say  just,  "  One  time  there  was  a  bear." 
Any  sort  of  a  story  will  be  satisfactory  after  this  beautiful 
prelude.  But  you  needn't  try  to  win  success  by  saying 
"  One  time  there  was  a  lion,"  or  "  One  time  there  was  a 
elerphunt."  No,  no — you  will  be  merely  wasting  your 
time.  "One  time  there  was  a  bear!"  In  the  distant 
[191] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

ages  some  great  philosopher,  longing  to  bring  a  common 
blessing  to  all  mankind,  must  have  created  that  mar- 
vellous utterance.  It  will  bring  a  thrill  of  ecstacy  to  the 
boy,  and  it  makes  the  little  woman  nestle  closer  and 
closer  to  you,  confidingly,  humorously,  expectantly.  If 
the  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin  had  only  known  what  to  say 
he  needn't  have  blown  on  his  flute.  .  .  .  "One  time 
there  was  a  bear!" 

"The  Right  "The  Right  of  Way,"  the  best  thing  that  has  ever 
^^  been  written  by  Mr.  Gilbert  Parker,  and  the  strongest 
novel  that  has  been  published  in  years,  has  become  an 
all-absorbing  topic  of  local  literary  discussion.  In  a 
small  town  in  the  western  part  of  this  State  the  book 
clubs  dropped  Balzac  and  Maeterlinck  recently  and  fell 
to  warring  as  to  whether  or  not  "The  Right  of  Way"  is 
immoral.  The  conflict  is  still  on.  The  truth  is  that  the 
book  is  as  clean  as  cleanness  except,  perchance,  one 
reads  it  looking  for — trouble.  It  is  quite  beautiful  and 
strong  and  artistic. 

"The  Little  "The  Little  Shepherd  of  Kingdom  Come,"  by  John 
of  Kmgdom^^^'  J^-»  ^^  having  a  larger  sale  than  any  of  the  new  books 
Come  "  displayed  by  the  local  bookstores.  It  is  well  written  and 
gives  a  fascinating  picture  of  life  in  Kentucky.  Yet  in 
holding  up  as  a  hero  a  Southern  man  who  fought  for  the 
Union  side,  through  conscientious  motive,  the  book  es- 
says a  difficult  task.  That  sort  of  exploit  was  not  ad- 
mired or  interesting  in  real  life.  As  the  basis  for  a  novel 
it  is  rather  unsafe;  for  the  author  and  the  reader  will 
have  different  opinions  of  the  real  character  of  the  hero. 

[192] 


OBSERVATIONS  ON  LITERATURE 

Still,  the  book  is  very  readable.  The  more  one  sees  of 
the  other  modern  books  the  more  he  likes  "The  Virgin- 
ian," the  best  novel  that  has  been  written  in  America  in 
many  years. 

Even  on  Sunday  night,  when  the  whole  world  has  re-  A  Thought 
turned  from  preaching  and  is  filled  with  spiritual  ex-  gte^nson 
hortation,  it  may  not  be  out  of  place  to  think  on  the 
words  of    "A  Task,"  written  by  Robert  Louis  Steven- 
son,   They  are  for  living  purposes  only  and  read : 

"  To  be  honest,  to  be  kind,  to  earn  a  little  and  to  spend 
a  little  less,  to  make  upon  the  whole  a  family  happier 
for  his  presence,  to  renounce  when  that  shall  be  neces- 
sary and  not  be  embittered,  to  keep  a  few  friends,  but 
these  without  capitulation,  above  all,  on  the  same  grim 
condition,  to  keep  friends  with  himself — here  is  a  task 
for  all  that  a  man  has  of  fortitude  and  deHcacy." 


13  [193] 


CHAPTER  XII 

IDEALS  OF  WRITING   AND   SPEAKING 

The  To  have  a  thing  to  tell  and  to  tell  it — that  is  the  spirit 
biinple  bty  e  ^^  modern  writing.  Time  was  when  the  world  found 
sheer  fascination  in  voluminous  and  bitter  controversy 
as  to  how  many  angels  could  stand  on  the  point  of  a 
needle,  and  the  thought  of  putting  the  vernacular  or 
plain  speech  in  books  was  horrifying.  Only  now  and 
then,  through  many  ages,  did  a  great,  simple  light  shine. 
Most  brains  were  beclouded  with  ponderous  phrases. 
There  was  a  rumbling  in  the  head  and  words  poured 
on  paper  with  the  hmitless  ease  of  a  schoolboy's  com- 
mas. To  write  grandly,  mystically,  transcendentally — 
that  was  the  old-time  idea.  Judged  by  present  stand- 
ards, this  was  a  waste  of  raw  material  and  quite  boring. 
The  classics  that  Hve  and  are  best  known  are  strongest 
in  simpHcity,  in  the  easy  telling  of  a  thing.  The  vener- 
able johnnies  who  died  in  Uterature  used  a  milHon 
words  too  many. 

*    *    * 

And  the  easiest  writing  is  the  hardest  writing.  Which 
is  a  compHment  to  the  new  school,  whose  demand  is  to 
trim  to  the  briefest  statement  of  truth  or  opinion.  May- 
be the  principle  is  too  businesslike  for  beauty,  but  it 
gains  in  other  respects.  Blackstone  knew  the  law,  but 
[194] 


IDEALS  OF  WRITING  AND  SPEAKING 

one  of  the  New  York  Sun's  cracks  could  take  any  of  The 

Blackstone's  volumes,  rewrite  it  in  half  size,  and  never  Simp  e  stye 

lose  an  argument  or  fact.    The  newspaper  theory  is  to 

nail  the  dynamic  point  in  the  first  paragraph,  to  then 

swing  to  your  rhetorical  introduction,  development  and 

conclusion,  and  to  play  up  your  stuff  so  that  you  may 

hold  interest  till  the  last  line  is  read.    Style  and  clean 

diction  are  not  forgotten,  but  writing  for  writing's  sake 

is  the  unforgivable  crime.    With  such  a  criterion  it  is 

small  wonder  that  the  new  school  scorns  the  methods 

of  the  past. 

^    ^    ^ 

"1  have  always  had  one  idea  in  writing  an  editorial," 
said  one  of  the  best-known  Southern  editors  to  the 
writer.  "  I  have  in  mind  a  man  in  the  middle  of  a  crowd 
and  I  want  to  brush  aside  everything  and  reach  him, 
hold  him  as  quickly  as  possible.  The  man  represents 
the  main  point  that  I  wish  to  make,  and  I  feel  hampered 
till  I  have  clinched  him."  'Tis  the  same  idea,  you  see. 
No  matter  what  the  subject  may  be,  writing  that  has  a 
thing  to  tell  and  tells  it  without  ever  losing  sight  of  a 
purpose — why,  that  writing  commands  attention  and  is 
durable. 

*    *    * 

Ideas  are  incidental,  or  unnecessary.  Referring  to 
an  article  written  by  a  rather  important  personage  in  a 
neighboring  town,  a  resident  said  in  serious  pride:  "He 
wrote  so  fine  that  but  very  few  people  could  under- 
stand him."  Yet  in  the  name  of  art  and  common  sense 
the  communication  in  question  should  have  been  re' 
[195] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  duced  from  one  thousand  to  one  hundred  words.  It 
Simp  e  Sty  e  ^^^  ^y[  just  fine  writing — the  result  of  half -education, 
conceit  and  an  ear  for  music.  Strong,  sure,  eloquent 
speech  is  most  beautiful.  It  is  clothed  fine,  maybe,  but 
is  ruthlessly  direct  in  its  splendor.  It  is  most  often  the 
clear,  terse  thought  from  the  mind  of  a  gentleman;  is 
independent  in  strength,  and  needs  no  word  trickery. 
Editor  Marshall,  of  the  Gastonia  Gazette,  is  always  talk- 
ing about  some  man  who  writes  iceberg  English— stuff 
that  shivers  one  with  its  cool  incisiveness,  and  Mr.  Mar- 
shall very  wisely  holds  up  this  Uterature  as  his  model. 
Yet  most  writers  reach  out  for  fine  writin'  and  will  be 
sophomores  to  the  end  of  their  days;  being  unmindful 
of  the  fact  that  the  simplest  and  best,  as  well  as  the 
hardest,  way  of  word-making  consists  in  the  selection 
of  short,  pungent  Saxon  sentences. 

*     *     * 

The  increased  number  of  North  Carolinians  who  in- 
dulge in  foreign  travel  has,  somehow,  resulted  in  few 
personal  lectures  on  the  old  country.  There  seems  to 
be  an  impression  that  a  three-months'  journey  on  the 
Continent  is  not  necessarily  followed  by  either  expert  or 
interesting  information,  and  a  denizen  with  hayseed  in 
his  hair  has  been  known  to  yawn  over  a  garrulous  ac- 
count of  the  wickedness  of  Paree. 

The  man  who  has  a  mind  to  see  things  and  knows 
how  to  tell  them  is  the  only  person  who  has  an  appre- 
ciative audience.  He  may  be  fresh  from  St.  Petersburg 
or  he  may  come  from  Paw  Creek,  but  if  he  understands 
his  fellow-man  and  the  quality  of  human  interest  his  ob- 
[196] 


IDEALS  OF  WRITING  AND  SPEAKING 

servations  will  command  attention  anywhere.  Nine-  The 
tenths  of  the  world  talks  incessantly,  but  the  one-tenth  Simple  Style 
doesn't  Hsten  one-tenth  of  the  time.  A  bit  of  humor 
picked  up  in  a  cornfield  may  make  all  mankind  laugh, 
or  the  seeing  of  pathos  in  the  death  of  a  yellow  dog  in 
the  back  country  may  cause  thousands  to  weep,  but  a 
suit  case  tagged  by  half  a  dozen  foreign  capitals  is  no 
guarantee  that  the  owner  will  not  wag  his  tongue  in 
vain  speech  and  boredom.  Anybody  can  write  and  any- 
body can  talk,  but  it  is  a  herculean  task  to  hold  any- 
body's attention  for  five  minutes." 

*     *    * 

Once  more  the  protest  comes  against  those  writers 
who  insist  upon  refusing  to  allow  a  dead  man  to  die. 
People  who  write  obituary  notices  on  this  subject  are 
not  expected  to  be  perfectly  clear  as  to  expression ;  but 
one  shudders  over  the  way  men  on  the  State  press  mur- 
der adjectives,  adverbs  and  long,  stout  clauses  in  efforts 
to  get  around  a  succinct  statement  of  facts.  Why  ?  Is 
there  a  word  in  the  English  language  that  is  half  as 
strong  as — dead  ?  He  is  dead.  Can  you  write  anything 
more  stately  or  eloquent  than  that  sentence  ?  Yet  even 
papers  like  The  New  Orleans  Times-Democrat  ramble 
rhetorical  miles  out  of  the  way  to  keep  from  using  the 
word.  You  see  it :  "He  has  passed  into  the  unknown,"  or 
"He  has  entered  sweetly  into  rest,"  or  "The  spirit  winged 
its  flight."  These  expressions  are  all  right  in  their  place, 
but  they  become  distasteful  when  a  newspaper  man, 
who  is  supposed  to  nail  his  essential  facts  in  his  first  par- 
agraph, uses  them  with  a  weepily  eloquent  idea  of  avoid- 
[197] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

ing  a  word  that  touches  heaven  with  its  sublime  strength. 
"Intothenight— into  the  Hght!"  Death!  Dead!  God 
and  eternity  are  in  the  word.  And  it  is  a  simple,  fair 
word,  opposing  unkind  discrimination  and  offering  dig- 
nity above  final  democracy. 

A  Bit  of  A  specimen  of  Mr.  Henry  Blount's  rhetoric,  printed 
Rhetoric  -^^  ^j^g  paper  a  week  or  so  ago,  has  attracted  a  good  deal 
of  attention.  In  one  sentence,  which  was  exactly  a 
quarter  of  a  column  long  in  actuahty  and  heaven  high  in 
sentiment,  Mr.  Blount  lassoed  all  the  biggest  descrip- 
tive adjectives  and  more  metaphors  than  the  ordinary 
writer  would  use  in  a  year.  His  climax,  it  may  be  re- 
membered, pictured,  in  a  majestic  style,  a  moth  that  had 
wiped  a  bitter  tear  from  its  eye  and  had  decided  that  it 
would  not  fix  a  "corroding  fang."  It  must  be  grand  to 
be  able  to  write  like  that.  In  his  entire  literary  career 
Mr.  Blount  never  said  or  thought  anything  that  he  could 
relate  in  Anglo-Saxon,  and,  without  a  bit  of  effort,  he 
sees  the  stars  singing  together  as  the  peroration  to  a  dog 
fight  and  a  sun-kissed  goddess  instead  of  a  cross-eyed 
blonde.  In  all  his  years  of  newspaper  work  Mr.  Blount 
recognized  nothing  as  trivial  or  prosaic,  and  always, 
when  he  speaks,  there  comes  that  steady  flow  of  gurg- 
ling, rhythmic  words,  not  to  be  likened  to  the  language 
of  any  other  man  that  ever  lived.  He  is  a  genius — a 
happy  genius,  though  one  may  differ  with  him  about 
rhetorical  qualities  and  quantities.  For  Henry  Blount 
is  ever  on  the  Alps,  and  at  breakfast  he  wears  a  mood 
that  may  seldom  bless  the  ordinary  man,  making  him 
wish  to  bare  his  head  under  the  beauty  of  the  starlit 
[198] 


IDEALS  OF  WRITING  AND  SPEAKING 

sky  or  humble  himself  reverentially  in  the  presence  of 
Nature's  perfection. 

"Once  more  the  graduates  are  leaving  college  and  The  College 
are  going  out  to  face  the  world,"  said  the  observant  ^^^'*"**^ 
man,  "and  I  am  wondering  which  of  the  boys  will  try 
to  learn  and  which  will  try  to  teach — which  will  suc- 
ceed and  which  will  fail.  I  speak  of  learning  and  teach- 
ing in  the  larger,  untechnical  sense.  I  have  seen  valedic- 
torians who  went  out  with  communicative  but  unrecep- 
tive  minds  to  teach  things  to  the  world.  They  now  have 
charge  of  schools  at  forty  dollars  a  month.  I  have  seen 
boys  who  made  second-year  math,  by  a  fluke,  and  who 
won  college  reputation  only  as  athletes.  They  walked 
into  sterner  living  with  a  keen  wish  to  absorb  and  learn, 
and  as  the  years  passed  they  came  to  the  intellectual 
life.  A  college  education  is  only  the  beginning  of  things, 
and  it  has  ruined  a  man  when  it  sent  him  out  as  a  self- 
constituted  tutor  to  the  rest  of  mankind.  You  recog- 
nize that  type  the  instant  you  see  it.  It  includes  young 
men,  middle-aged  men  and  old  men,  and  none  of  them 
has  any  capacity  for  growth.  The  habit  of  trying  to 
teach  or  tell  things  to  the  world  is  incurable,  and  it  is 
too  apt  to  begin  at  college.  It  will  spoil  the  lawyer,  the 
politician — injure  any  man  in  public  or  private  life.  It 
will  make  a  man  the  dictator  at  a  family  dinner  table, 
the  spokesman  for  every  crowd  on  the  streets,  and  it  will 
close  his  ears  to  the  instruction  that  he  should  receive 
from  his  fellow  man  every  day  that  he  lives.  Mark  the 
man  who  listens  and  thinks,  and  the  man  who  thinks 
he  knows  it  all  and  talks  without  listening.  The  talkers 
[199] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

are  in  the  majority  in  the  world,  but  the  listeners — the 
learners — rule  the  world." 

Use  of  A  man  writes  by  the  light  that  the  Lord  has  given 
^^  ^  him:  and  the  Comment  Man  says  "unnice"  and  "un- 
sweet,"  because  he  likes  the  sense  and  sound  of  the 
words.  Looking  for  his  good-natured  critic,  he  sees  the 
visage  of  Mr.  Henry  A.  Page,  of  Aberdeen,  a  man 
whose  opinion  on  any  subject  must  challenge  attention. 
But,  seriously,  Mr.  Page,  what  is  the  matter  with 
"unsweet"?  Lord  Bacon  loved  the  word,  and  in  his 
"Essay  on  Death" — a  model  for  all  the  ages — he 
says: 

"But  I  consent  with  Caesar,  that  the  suddenest  pas- 
sage is  the  easiest,  and  there  is  nothing  more  awakens 
our  resolve  and  readiness  to  die  than  the  quieted  con- 
science, strengthened  with  opinion  that  we  shall  be  well 
spoken  of  upon  earth  by  those  that  are  just  and  of  the 
family  of  virtue;  the  opposite  whereof  is  a  fury  to  man, 
and  makes  even  life  unsweet."  Man,  where  can  you 
find  anything  quainter  or  finer  than  this  ?  "  Makes  even 
life  unsweet" — can't  you  understand  that? 

*     *    * 

Col.  Al.  Fairbrother,  editor  of  Everything,  champions 
the  word  anent,  and  says  it  is  a  smooth  and  juicy 
word.  That's  a  matter  of  taste.  But  you  never  heard 
any  one  use  the  word  in  conversation,  or  pronounce  it 
easily  or  naturally.  It  is  one  of  the  few  old  Saxon  or 
Scotch  words  that  lack  in  strength  and  euphony.  But 
a  man  can't  be  dogmatic  about  this  matter.  He  Hkes 
[  200] 


IDEALS  OF  WRITING  AND  SPEAKING 

certain  words  and  he  doesn't  like  certain  words;   that  Use  of 
is  all.    And  the  writer  abominates  anent  and  alas  and  ^ 

lovely.  Col.  Fairbrother  remembers  that  a  correspond- 
ent once  "jumped  astride  the  comment  man"  for  using 
the  word  unnice.  He  did.  It  was  Henry  Page,  who  in 
the  same  breath  held  up  the  word  nasty  as  a  desirable 
expression  for  euphemistic  parlance.  There  was  a 
fierce  Httle  row,  and  after  it  was  all  over  the  mind  of  the 
comment  man  wasn't  changed  in  the  least.  He  likes 
unnice  and  he  likes  unsweet;  but  he  hasn't  written 
either  of  the  words  since  he  had  the  mix-up  with  Henry 
Page.  He  thinks  them  a  lot,  hovv^ever ;  thinks  that  anent 
is  unsweet,  and  that  both  you  and  Henry  Page,  Col.  Fair- 
brother,  have  unnice,  cranky  ideas  about  "word-sling- 
ing," to  borrow  a  term  that  you  exercise  in  your  sub- 
limest  peroration.  But  man's  a  sensitive  thing,  after 
all,  and  he  can  be  broken  from  using  any  words  except 
sweet  words.  The  Old  Man  says  that  once  the  New 
Orleans  Times-Democrat  referred  to  something  and 
then  added  that  it  was  up  to  the  Charlotte  Observer  to 
say:  "You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself."  It  oc- 
curred to  him  then  that  nearly  all  his  journalistic  hfe 
he  had  been  writing  at  one  time  and  another,  "You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself" — ^jestfully,  of  course. 
His  pet  phrase,  just  like  unnice  and  unsweet,  is  held  in 
abeyance  these  days.  But  you  are  incorrigible.  Colonel 
Fairbrother.  If  it  has  occurred  to  your  subtle  mind 
that  anent  is  a  nice,  poetical  word,  you'll  go  on  trying 
to  create  lockjaw  with  it  for  the  balance  of  your  days. 
Nothing  short  of  a  club  could  ever  persuade  you  from 
riding  your  own  outlandish,  devilish  words. 
[201] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  Inex-  If  a  strong,  clear-headed  man  were  to  speak  accord- 
pressiDle  -^^g  ^^  ^^^q  heart  that  is  in  him — tell  the  throbbing  his- 
tory of  a  soul — the  world  would  stop  and  hsten.  When 
he  comes  to  paint  the  sorrow  of  death  he  must  not  expose 
his  own  anguish  as  he  stood  at  the  bier,  but  he  delves 
into  his  imagination  for  another  man,  and  pictures, 
most  often,  a  suffering  that  is  not  real.  And  who,  in 
writing  a  love  story,  would  dare  display  the  brooding 
sweetness  of  a  personal  experience  ?  The  greatest  writ- 
ers are  those  who  understand  the  things  about  them 
and  can  tell  these  things.  But  the  simple  inner  history 
— or  confession — of  any  one  of  half  the  people  one 
knows  might  be  more  sensational  than  all  the  books 
ever  written. 

*  *    * 

As  the  jester  jests,  a  man  in  the  club  upstairs  is  play- 
ing the  Intermezzo  on  a  muffled  piano,  and  the  notes 
steal  down  to  mock  laughter.  Music  and  the  mood  stay 
the  hand  that  would  be  facetious.  Pierrot  was  un- 
mirthful  awhile.  There's  no  need,  or  scant  wish,  in  the 
telling,  but  .  .  .  music — certain  tender  notes — clutch 
and  hold  one.  There's  a  tremulousness  of  strength,  a 
fullness,  a  touch  of  completeness — indescribable.  And 
words  are  helpless,  hopeless.  To  write  them  as  one  felt 
— ay,  it  is  impossible.  To  feel,  to  be  moved  till  there's 
a  gulp  in  the  throat,  to  be  swayed  by  an  emotion  till  Ufe 
is  quickened  to  the  utmost  and  to  be  able  to  write  then 
— then.  .  .  .  No.    'Tis  not  given  to  do.    So  is  pathos. 

*  *    * 

Often  a  newspaper  cannot  touch  more  than  the  sur- 
face Ufe,  and  books  handle  vital  personal  episodes  only 
[  202] 


IDEALS  OF  WRITING  AND  SPEAKING 

by  holding  up  puppets  to  play  with.  The  only  thing  The  Inex- 
really  worth  while  studying  is  a  living  human  being  who  P'^^^^^'*^^ 
sins,  or  suffers,  or  exults,  or  loves,  or  is  disgraced,  or 
perishes — all  in  our  sight  or  within  our  knowledge.  All 
we  see  or  think  about,  more  than  all  we  know  we  speak 
about,  and  then  we  may  write  about  only  that  which  is 
too  uninteresting  to  talk  about,  or  too  notorious  for  si- 
lence. The  thought  has  passed  beyond  things  scanda- 
lous, ana  considers  the  thousand  and  one  fascinating 
little  human  incidents  that  occur  in  the  daily  life,  and 
must  be  told  in  lip  service  and  not  by  a  pen.  They  are 
ever  seeable  to  a  newspaper  man,  but  for  use  in  his 
craft  they  are  ever  denied  him.  He  stands  in  the  dry- 
as-dust  path  or  rut  and  must  take  the  things  that  come, 
while  his  heart  aches  to  revel  in  the  near-by  field  which 
is  filled  with  people  and  a  prattle  that  is  not  great,  but 
humanly  intimate,  and  strong  enough  to  make  all  man- 
kind stop  and  listen.  The  writer  would  like  to  write 
one  book — not  a  sociological  or  historical  novel,  but  a 
book  that  revealed  the  naked,  inner  truth  in  the  life 
and  hving  of  a  man  or  woman — almost  any  man  or 
woman,  and  if  he  could  do  this  honestly  and  accurately 
he  would  be  content,  knowing  that  he  had  done  a  deed 
that  was  new  under  the  sun.  Do  you  understand  the 
fierce  temptation  to  write  with  gloves  off — to  go  behind 
the  mocking  outwardness  and  paint  a  picture  in  warm, 
soft  colors  that  would  betray  the  secret  soul  of  child- 
hood, the  weakness  and  the  strength  of  youth's  passion, 
the  sweetness  and  pitifulness  of  old  age,  the  mask  of  hyp- 
ocrisy, and  faces,  not  as  one  pretends  to  see  them,  but  as 

one  really  sees  them  ?    But  the  want  is  useless,  for 

[203] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  Inex-  A  man  up  in  the  club  is  playing  Gottschalk's  "Last 
pressible  jjQpg^"  and  the  music  is  bothersome  to  another  man 
who  is  trying  to  write  nonsense.  The  man  in  the  club 
is  operating  a  Cecilian  that  is  tacked  on  to  a  piano,  and 
he  probably  has  his  coat  off  and  is  looking  no  more 
sentimental  than  a  fish,  but  heard  from  this  distance 
the  music  is  as  tender  and  beautiful  as  it  was  intended 
to  be.  It  belongs  to  the  kind  of  music  that  makes  one 
think  things  that  he  can't  write  about,  or  it  creates  a 
misty,  dreamy  realm  that  is  filled  with  wet  violets  and 
a  certain  kind  of  eyes.  A  curse  on  the  lameness  of  a 
pen!  A  man  is  forever  wanting  to  write  about  things 
that  he  doesn't  want  to  write  about,  or  else  he  is  palsied 
in  his  efforts  to  deduce  interest  from  practical  things. 
To  write  one  paragraph  on  a  level  with  the  simple  spirit 
of  that  music — to  stand  under  the  heavens  and  speak 
fitting  majesty  in  a  sentence — to  describe  the  look  on  a 
mother's  face  as  she  touches  a  nesthng  infant.  .  .  .  Aye, 
the  impossible  is  asked !  The  big,  surging  things  in  us 
are  dumb.  Every  hving  man  has  been  glorified  by 
something  that  stood  for  inspiration — by  some  leap  of 
blood  that  quickened  him  to  the  fulness  of  hving  and 
appreciation — and  silenced  him.  Oh,  the  fretting  is 
idle.  Nordica  sang  and  everybody  said  'twas  beauti- 
ful. How  beautiful — the  effect  of  the  song  ?  And  there 
was  silence  while  eyes  glowed  feverishly.  Baffled? 
That's  it.  The  paper  said  the  song  was  beautiful.  So! 
Miss  Pansy  Blossom,  who  is  coming  over  here  next 
week  to  visit  Miss  Priscilla  Smith,  is  also  beautiful, 
they  say.  The  fooUsh  idea  of  trying  to  say  anything 
with  words! 

[204] 


IDEALS  OF  WRITING  AND  SPEAKING 

The  telling  of  this  little  incident  is  additional  proof  Art  of  Story 
to  the  writer  that  the  effect  of  some  funny  situations  ®  "^^ 
cannot  be  conveyed  in  words.  Words  are  bleak, 
unmeaning  things  at  times.  A  little  while  ago  a 
man  came  to  this  ofhce  and  he  was  laughing  so  he 
could  hardly  speak.  Eventually  he  said  between 
hysterics : 

"Funniest  thing  I  ever  heard  happened  down  yonder 
to-night.  Oh,  it's  too  good  to  keep,  and  it  will  make 
the  best  newspaper  story  in  the  world." 

"What  is  it?" 

"As  soon  as  I  can  get  my  breath  I'll  write  it  for  you," 
he  repHed. 

After  a  while  he  wiped  the  laughter-tears  from  his 
eyes,  reached  for  some  paper,  sharpened  a  pencil  as  he 
tittered,  and  began  to  write.  He  wrote  a  line  or  two  on 
half  a  dozen  sheets  of  paper  and  crumpled  'em  up  and 
chucked  'em  in  the  waste  basket.  Sharpening  his  pen- 
cil again,  he  scrawled  a  couple  of  lines,  and  then  rested 
his  head  on  his  hand  and  thoughtfully  shaded  the  let- 
ters he  had  already  made.  The  gradual  change  in  his 
expression  was  interesting.  At  first  his  face  beamed, 
then  he  condescended  to  smile  only  occasionally,  and 
finally  he  was  quite  serious.  An  hour  passed  and  he 
sat  there  with  his  eyes  sort  of  protruding  and  cold  per- 
spiration on  his  forehead.  The  muse  wouldn't  work. 
He  had  not  written  half  a  page,  but  his  fingers  were 
gripped  as  if  he  suffered  from  paralysis.  The  humor 
simply  refused  to  leak  onto  the  paper.  The  mental 
strain  grew  terrible  to  witness.  Finally  he  reached  for 
his  hat,  walked  to  the  door,  and  in  parting  said : 
[205] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

"Say,  the  darned  thing  is  not  half  as  funny  as  I 
thought  it  was." 
The  joke  was  never  told. 

*    *    * 

"Commend  me  to  a  man  who  can  tell  a  story  with- 
out superfluous  words  or  gestures,"  remarked  a  clever 
Charlotte  man.  "The  telling  of  nine  stories  out  of  ten 
is  hurt  by  wild  waving  of  hands  and  arms  or  the  inter- 
jection of  words  that  are  top- weights  for  the  tale.  Dr. 
Buttrick,  the  secretary  of  the  General  Educational 
Board,  is  the  first  exception  to  the  rule  that  I  have  met 
in  a  long  time.  I  saw  him  at  the  banquet  the  other 
night  lay  his  hand  on  his  fork,  and,  speaking  for  ten 
minutes,  he  never  made  a  movement  or  grimace.  The 
simple  selection  and  pronunciation  of  his  words  at- 
tracted and  held  the  attention  of  everybody  around  him. 
This  was  the  perfection  of  story  telling — an  art  that  is 
almost  forgotten." 

Modern      How  a  phrase  rings  and  throws  the  mind  off  at  a  tan- 
Oratory  ggj^i-^     -y^g^g  jj-  ^Q^  Ingersoll  who,  in  speaking  of  his 
brother's  death,  said : 

"He  has  gone  into  the  night — into  the  Hght." 

What  antithesis !    It  is  simple  Saxon  sayings  like  this 

that  live.    Words  that  are  the  vernacular  of  the  people 

show  the  strength  and  the  polish  of  the  greatest  minds. 

If  "damn"  had  three  syllables  mankind  wouldn't  swear. 

Modern  oratory  searches  for  ideas  after  high  words 

and  euphony — is  a  clumsily  arranged  tale  told  by  sound 

and  gestures.     Cicero  in  his  speech  against  Cataline, 

and  Mr.  Walter  Page  in  his  address  here  the  other  night 

[206] 


IDEALS  OF  WRITING  AND  SPEAKING 

before  the  educational  conference,  expressed  their 
meaning  in  clear,  incisive  words,  but  a  majority  of  other 
speakers  have  been  confusing  the  seven  hills  of  Rome 
with  any  subject  at  issue.  Twentieth-century  audiences 
are  as  badly  persecuted  as  the  early  Christians. 

Down  in  the  legislative  halls  in  Raleigh  they're  still  Bad  Taste 
talking  about  Senator  Vance.  Too  much  praise  may 
not  be  said  of  that  statesman  and  simple  gentleman, 
but  there  is  something  unnice  in  the  way  his  name  is  in- 
voked on  the  smallest  pretext.  In  many  legislatures 
it  has  been  customary  for  orators,  no  matter  whether 
they  wished  a  no-fence  law  or  a  bill  for  the  relief  of  a 
crossroads,  to  get  up  and  violently  swear,  honestly  and 
by  patriotism,  by  the  memory  of  that  immortal  leader. 
The  name  of  Vance,  dragged  into  a  speech  as  a  part  of 
personal  eulogy,  and  flaunted  in  shocking  bad  taste,  is 
heard  too  often  on  the  poHtical  stumps  in  all  parts  of  this 
State.  Oh,  this  screaming,  nauseous  sentiment  that 
reeks  with  prate  of  deity,  or  a  father's  grave,  or  the  pro- 
fane use  of  the  name  of  a  dead  leader  like  Vance,  whose 
fine  scorn  would  have  blasted  such  methods ! 

The  world  is  full  of  preachers  who  are  splendidly  Simplicity 
educated  and  who  get  about  seven  hundred  dollars  a  puip^^ 
year  for  preaching.  They  are  consecrated  men  who 
pore  over  the  Scripture  and  use  long  Greek  and  He- 
brew quotations  with  the  greatest  ease  and  constancy. 
As  they  grow  older  they  increase  in  learning,  but  their 
salary  remains  about  the  same.  A  minister  like  Dr. 
Vance,  of  Newark,  N.  J.,  who  gets  six  thousand  dollars 
[207] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

a  year,  is  worth  studying.  What  do  they  pay  him  all 
that  money  for  ?  Why  does  he  command  so  much  more 
wages  than  nine-tenths  of  the  other  ministers?  This 
thought  was  in  the  mind  of  one  person,  at  least,  who 
listened  to  Dr.  Vance  last  night  at  the  Second  Presby- 
terian church.  Dr.  Vance's  personality  is  pleasant 
enough,  but  he  is  not  particularly  magnetic.  He  has  an 
ordinary  voice.  He  preaches  less  than  half  an  hour. 
Yet  when  he  concludes  a  sermon  one  understands, 
without  wonderment,  why  he  commands  a  big  price. 
He  is  unusual  because  he  is  perfectly  simple.  He  in- 
dulges in  no  flowers,  no  hazy  metaphysical  language. 
He  has  a  thing  to  say  and  he  says  it  in  Anglo-Saxon. 
He  indulges  in  no  hackneyed  rhetorical  climaxes.  He 
is  as  plain  as  an  old  shoe;  and  his  eloquence  is  in  his 
earnestness.  Any  child  can  understand  him,  it  was 
said,  of  course.  His  talk  has  the  rhetorical  sound  of 
Robinson  Crusoe  in  words  of  one  syllable.  His  secret 
is  nothing  else  but  simpHcity ;  and  his  experience  ought 
to  be  an  invaluable  lesson  to  all  those  who  speak  for  good 
effect  or  pay. 

Affectation  Pahst  and  lahst  and  cahn't  are  the  birthright  of  the 
"^  P^^*^  Britishers,  Bostonians  and  a  few  Virginians,  but  are  to 
be  marked  as  boomerangs  when  handled  by  those  of 
alien  breed.  Speech  and  refined  table  manners  are  the 
essentials  by  which  all  men  are  judged.  In  the  pride  of 
his  social  heart  one  may  consistently  wear  an  elegant 
oyster  harpoon  as  a  watch  guard,  but  when  he  learns  to 
dahnce  at  adult  age  he  borrows  trouble  which  he  can- 
not conceal.  The  theft  of  the  longish  "  a  "  seems  to  be  the 
[208] 


IDEALS  OF  WRITING  AND  SPEAKING 

peculiar  prerogative  of  young  women,  who  usually  say 
"  i-ther  "  and  "  nee-ther."  It  is  the  construction  of  a  pit- 
fall to  introduce  the  broad  a  into  fair  speech — such  being 
rare  by  a  token  of  pity.  And  to  hamper  an  I-have-saw 
and  he-taken  lingo  with  a  penchant  for  dahncing  is  a 
thing  to  make  the  gods  weep  bitterly.  Now,  it  was  only 
a  little  while  ago  at  a  local  card  party  that  The  Lady, 
with  a  graceful  wave  of  her  willowy  neck,  said : 

"Cahn't-eu  see  that  it  was  your  lahst  chawnce  and 
you  orter  tuck  the  trick?" 

Dr.  J.  William  Jones,  chaplain  general  of  the  United  Stump- 
Confederate  Veterans,  who  is  to  lecture  at  the  Presby-  t^g'^LoM  ^^ 
terian  College  auditorium,  in  this  city,  next  Thursday 
night,  on  "Stonewall  Jackson  as  a  Soldier,"  will  receive 
a  warm  welcome  here.  Before  an  immense  audience 
in  Charlotte,  several  weeks  ago.  Dr.  Jones  spoke  of 
"The  Christian  Character  of  Jackson,"  and,  holding 
close  to  his  theme,  he  was  most  impressive  and  interest- 
ing. After  dwelUng  at  length  on  the  fervor  and  sim- 
pHcity  of  Jackson's  prayers.  Dr.  Jones  said : 

"  Jackson  made  no  stump-speeches  to  the  Lord," 
And  every  person  in  the  vast  audience  knew  exactly 
what  the  speaker  meant.  What  a  difference  there  is  be- 
tween the  quiet  earnestness  of  the  old-time  man  of  God 
and  the  wordy  bill  of  particulars  that  is  so  frequently 
heard  in  sophomoric  and  classic  effusions!  It  must  be 
no  easy  thing  to  learn  to  pray  in  pubKc,  but  the  glibness 
and  the  combinations  of  high-sounding  phrases  that 
come  with  practice  are  sometimes  harder — for  the  con- 
gregation. 

14  [ 209  ] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Stump-  Stump-speaking  in  prayer  is  rather  more  intolerable 
^^^^'^ord  ^^^^  ^^^  absurdity  that  comes  from  ignorance  or  con- 
fusion. The  laugh-provoking  qualities  of  some  prayers 
are  admitted  even  by  the  best  of  ministers,  who  would 
fail  to  find  mirth  in  the  utterance  of  the  fashionable 
Boston  clergyman  of  whom  it  was  said  "he  offered  up 
the  most  eloquent  prayer  that  was  ever  addressed  to  a 
Boston  audience,"  but  would  be  irresistibly  amused  at 
the  stumbhng,  ludicrous  petition  of  an  honest,  Chris- 
tian soul.  The  declaration  of  the  gentleman  who  was 
unable  to  stop  the  approach  of  the  bear  by  prayer  has 
record  in  profane  history,  but  stories  funnier  than  this 
and  strictly  within  prayer-meeting  limits  may  be  told  by 
almost  every  minister.  Squire  Calton  Giles,  of  Burke 
County,  sometime  high  church  officer  and  local  exhorter, 
requested  merciful  consideration  for  a  good  brother 
who  lived  two  miles  up  the  river  on  the  Walton  place 
close  to  the  fish  trap.  He  was  always  that  specific.  His 
pastor  kept  smile  from  his  face ;  petitioned  without  ref- 
erence to  the  fish  trap  and  in  rhetorical,  flowery  phrase 
that  the  congregation,  at  least,  had  to  take  on  trust. 
The  point  to  this  dissertation — if  point  be  allowed  by 
courtesy — is  directed,  in  a  measure,  at  a  clergyman  in 
this  city,  who  told  gleefully  of  the  break  of  a  church  offi- 
cer in  a  prayer  meeting,  and  yet  the  same  preacher  on 
the  following  Sunday  night,  used,  in  a  brief  petition, 
the  words  "circumambient,"  "iridescent"  and  "cor- 
ollary." Which  the  Boston  audience  would  have  ap- 
preciated soberly. 

But  stump-speaking  be  barred 

[210] 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MUSIC   AND   DRAMA 

Except  in  "  Melisse,"  which  was  played  in  three  night  "  Melisse  " 
stands  in  Morganton  and  other  small  towns  in  the  west-  j^oreanton 
ern  part  of  the  State  fifteen  or  twenty  years  ago,  never 
was  such  a  histrionic  success.  Home  talent  in  Morgan- 
ton  had  been  parading  dukes  and  duchesses  in  ances- 
tral wedding  garments  for  many  moons,  but  no  real, 
live  theatrical  company  had  appeared  in  the  hamlet 
since  Mr.  Wister  Tate  was  mayor.  Which  was  a  long 
time.  The  players  did  about  on  the  town  hall  stage  be- 
hind a  red  curtain,  which  was  worked  on  a  big  twine 
string.  Their  scenery  looked  like  pictures  in  the  bar- 
ber shop,  but  they  played  a  play  that  thrilled  the  entire 
population.  It  was  related  that  Mr.  John  Happoldt, 
who  had  been  to  New  York,  had  said  that  "Melisse" 
was  as  fine  as  anything  he  had  ever  seen  there,  and 
everybody  frowned  at  Mr.  Zach  Corpening,  who  had 
been  to  New  Orleans  and  who  yawned  and  left  the 
house  during  the  first  act.  The  next  day  people  gath- 
ered in  groups  on  the  streets  and  rehearsed,  with  pan- 
tomime effect,  the  beautiful  uttera,nces  of  MeUsse  and 
her  cowboy  lover.  The  little  town  hall  was  transformed 
to  a  place  beautiful,  and  when  the  cowboy  stood  full 
under  the  large  kerosene  lamp  and  drew  two  pistols  and 
shouted  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  "I  will  avenge  her  with 

[211] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

me  life,"  or  something  like  that,  everybody  just  riz 
right  up  and  made  the  welkin  ring.  "Mehsse"  marked 
the  first  injection  of  modern  dramatic  art  into  the  vil- 
lage, and  after  that  nobody  was  particularly  interested 
when  somebody  that  everybody  knew  wore  a  familiar 
suit  of  Sunday  clothes  and  cried,  "Wilt  be  mine.  Lady 
Pauline?"  The  cowboy  marked  an  epoch.  MeHsse 
'nspired  fevered  dreams.  The  curtain  had  disclosed  a 
new  world.  Youth  saw  blissfully  and  found  no  flaw. 
Dear,  dear  Melisse! 

*    *    * 

The  theme  is  not  for  fun-making.  There  is  no  happi- 
ness in  learning  to  know  how  to  criticise.  '  Tis  a  fault  that 
comes  with  age.  It  must  come  by  a  token  of  weariness. 
A  man  looks  back  at  his  childhood,  remembers  what  the 
child's  eyes  saw,  and,  maybe,  laughs  at  the  remem- 
brance, and  yet  he  sighs  for  the  rare  pleasure  that  was 
before  disillusionment  came.  "Manhood,"  some  one 
said,  "is  but  the  dusty  wareroom  where  are  stored  life's 
broken  dreams."  It  isn't  that  bad,  but  it  teaches  a 
man  too  much  knowledge  that  is  not  sweet,  while  never 
fully  guarding  him  against  the  errors  of  inexperience. 
To  have  kept  the  simple,  light  heart  that  found  peace 
and  enjoyment  in  the  littlest  things — aye,  that  would 
be  something.  One  should  weep  now  over  Melisse  and 
her  wondrous  cowboy.  Who  found  content  after  he 
was  introduced  to  the  real  Santa  Claus  ? 

The  Theatre      Charlotte  theatre-goers  have  demonstrated  the  fact 
Public  ^^^^  ^^^y  ^^^^  P^^  ^P  ^^y  a-niount  of  money  to  see  a  good 
show,  but  they  will  not  patronize  a  poor  performance 
[212] 


MUSIC  AND  DRAMA 

unless  they  are  deceived  into  thinking  it  is  good.  The  The  Theatre 
three  star  attractions  that  played  here  last  week  made  p^jjiig^ 
almost  as  much  money  in  Charlotte  as  they  made  in 
towns  like  Atlanta  and  Richmond,  which  are  several 
times  larger  than  this  city ;  and  all  other  first-class  shows 
that  have  been  here  this  season  have  had  flattering  au- 
diences. The  theatrical  criterion  here  is  high,  though 
not  exacting.  It  is  almost  a  proverb  to  say  that  when 
Charlotte  people  leave  home  they  go  to  New  York;  and 
this  is  mentioned  to  indicate  that  there  is  here  a  preva- 
lent, though  not  overweening,  knowledge  of  what  is 
worth  while  in  the  play-acting  world.  Poor  plays  are 
treated  mercilessly  here,  and  the  newspaper  that  treats 
them  mercifully  is  apt  to  be  mocked  by  its  patrons  or 
friends.  Everybody  looks  uncritically  upon  the  ten, 
twenty  and  thirty  cent  productions,  but  beyond  that — 
when  the  orchestra  seats  stand  at  $1.50 — there  is  a  keen- 
eyed  demand  that  the  people  on  the  stage  act  up  to 
their  pretensions,  and  if  they  don't  they  get  a  roast  that 
lives  for  a  long  time  and  a  long  ways.  A  bum  show 
makes  a  very  sad  mistake  in  coming  here. 
*    *    * 

The  only  trouble  with  the  Gordon-Shay  Company  is 
that  it  tried  to  do  what  it  couldn't  do  and  will  never  be 
able  to  do.  Apart  from  the  Calve  and  Melba  contin- 
gent, thousands  try  to  sing  grand  opera,  but  the  indi- 
vidual can  count  the  successes  that  he  has  witnessed  on 
the  fingers  of  one  hand.  They  are  very  seldom  seen 
here,  though,  by  a  grim  token,  a  new  voice  periodically 
walks  on  the  stage  in  evening  clothes  and  marks  failure 
in  striving  for  unattainable  notes.  This  refers  to  the 
[213I 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

ultra-classical  music — to  the  bird  that  can't  sing  and 
will  try  to  sing  beyond  its  power  or  training.  This  side 
of  the  goal  fixed  by  a  few  Grand  Artists  there  is  such  a 
beautiful  world  of  music  and  melody,  and  why  is  it  that 
the  people  who  can  play  in  it  prettily  so  often  spoil 
themselves  and  the  pleasure  of  others  by  overstepping 
bounds  and  mocking  an  art  that  punishes  all  mockery 
so  cruelly? 

A  Battle  There  was  a  battle  royal  last  night  between  the  Ital- 
^^^  ian  with  his  street  piano  and  the  Rentfrow  Company's 
band. 

The  Italian  came  here  six  or  seven  days  ago  and  had 
the  run  of  the  place  undisturbed  for  several  days.  At  all 
hours  of  the  day  he  could  be  heard  grinding  out  music, 
while  the  little  green  bird  in  the  cage  at  the  top  of  his 
piano  did  a  lucrative  business  in  telling  fortunes.  The 
curious  gave  the  bird's  master  ten  cents,  and  then  the 
bird  selected,  with  its  bill,  yellow  and  red  pamphlet 
forecasts,  which  informed  a  man  that  he  would  have  a 
severe  experience  but  he  would  overcome  it  and  live 
happily  to  the  age  of  seventy;  and  a  woman  that  she 
must  not  be  downhearted  if  her  first  marriage  resulted 
unsatisfactorily — that  she  would  outHve  it  and  make 
others. 

The  Italian  was  out  of  town  Monday  and  in  his  ab- 
sence the  Rentfrow  Company,  with  its  band,  arrived. 
The  ItaHan  did  the  usual  amount  of  business  yesterday 
morning  and  evening,  without  the  first  sound  of  com- 
petition; but  as  the  piano  paused  in  front  of  the  Cen- 
tral Hotel  last  night  about  eight  o'clock  and  unwound 
[214] 


MUSIC  AND  DRAMA 

the  strains  of  "The  Holy  City,"  there  was  a  sudden  A  Battle 
rude,  discordant  jar  as  the  band  stepped  in  front  of  the  *^°y^ 
opera  house  a  block  away  and  began  to  enHven  the  at- 
mosphere with  a  rag-time  tune.  The  trick  bird  woke  up 
and  gasped  in  astonishment.  The  Roman  muttered 
"Can  these  things  be?"  and  ordered  force  pressure  on 
"The  Holy  City."  But  the  rag-time  became  louder  and 
Kvelier,  and  the  adherents  of  the  musical  Roman  began 
to  gradually  desert  him  for  coon-song  airs.  The  Httle 
green  bird  grew  greener  with  rage. 

The  gentleman  from  Italy  recognized  that  his  battery 
was  firing  too  slowly  and  that  he  must  charge  in  the  face 
of  the  rapid-fire  brass  guns.  His  courage  rose,  and, 
with  his  eye  in  fine  frenzy  rolling,  he  got  into  the  shafts 
of  the  rolHng  box  and  charged  down  the  street  to  fight 
a  rear-guard  action.  Half  a  block  down  he  stopped, 
unlimbered,  caught  the  revolving  crank,  and  fired  into 
the  enemy's  broadsides  with  heavy  bars  of  "The  Geor- 
gia Camp-meeting."  There  was  a  momentary  demor- 
alization among  the  brass  horns,  but  they  rallied  and 
replied  with  deadly  clog-dance  artillery.  The  notes  met 
in  mid-air  and  screamed  and  wrestled  and  fell  all  over 
the  shop ;  and  the  Httle  green  bird  gave  a  throaty  chir- 
rup of  excitement. 

The  crowd  paused,  uncertain,  and  the  battle  was  in 
doubt.  The  Rentfrow  ammunition  was  exhausted  for 
a  minute,  and  the  wanderer  from  the  ItaUan  coast  once 
more  slipped  the  cog  to  "The  Holy  City" — a  war 
hymn  in  slow  time.  Then  the  band  found  another  coon 
song  which  almost  submerged  the  pious  craft.  Yet 
once  more  Italian  bravery  asserted  itself,  and,  travelling 
[215] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

at  full  speed,  the  piano  made  a  last  stand  in  front  of  the 
Buford.  Though  greatly  harassed  and  suffering  not  a 
little,  Saracinesca  had  one  yery  dangerous  shot  in  his 
locker.  As  the  little  green  bird  indulged  in  difficult  so- 
prano effects  he  steered  his  vessel  until  he  could  rake 
the  enemy  fore  and  aft  and  then  his  guns  belched  forth 
"The  Blue  and  the  Gray."  The  effect  was  tremendous 
and  there  was  tumult  about.  The  crowd  began  to  rally 
around  little  Italy ;  and  Mr.  H.  C.  Eccles  waved  his  hat 
and  shouted  ifi  the  purest  French:  "Beyond  the  Alps 
lies  Italy,"  and  "The  Old  Guard  dies,  but  never  sur- 
renders." 

And  the  superiority  of  Yankee  Doodle  and  Dixie 
over  the  brass  battery's  "CHney"  was  so  manifest  that 
the  struggle  was  all  but  over,  when,  in  an  unfortunate 
moment,  Pietro  Ghisleri  lost  a  cog  and  played  a  made- 
in- Germany  air  that  was  all  beer  and  skittles,  while  the 
Rentfrows,  quick  to  see  an  advantage,  came  back  with 
a  Cuban  love  song  that  had  "Mother"  in  it.  This 
ended  the  battle.  Gambietta  retired  in  good  order,  but 
he  retired  nevertheless.  And  the  little  green  bird  fainted 
dead  away. 

Joseph  The  town  will  give  Mr.  Joseph  Jefferson  a  royal  wel- 
je  erson  ^q^^^  when  he  comes  here  next  month  to  play  "The  Ri- 
vals." Charlotte  knows  him  only  as  Rip  Van  Winkle, 
and  will  hardly  lose  sight  of  him  as  Rip  Van  Winkle  no 
matter  how  great  he  may  be  in  "The  Rivals."  As  Rip 
he  wins  hearts  and  a  loyalty  that  he  cannot  lose.  He  is 
many  things — an  artist,  a  millionaire,  and  an  actor  with 
versatile  talent,  yet  the  world  remembers  him  first  and 
[216] 


MUSIC  AND  DRAMA 

last  and  best  as  the  droll  man  who  was  fond  of  children  Joseph 
and  injected  humor  into  sadness.  One  may  not  forget  •'^  ^^^°^ 
the  consummate  art  of  Joseph  Jefferson.  There  is 
none  other  like  him — not  one.  He  is  the  one  to  make 
the  clutch  come  to  the  throat  of  a  strong  man.  How 
curiously  he  blends  humor  and  sadness — and  without 
effort.  The  character  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  cannot  stand 
the  test  of  analysis.  He  was  too  far  from  seriousness, 
too  prone  to  deceit.  As  his  wife  loved  him  and  wept 
over  him  and  forgave  him,  he  tricked  her  with  a  leer 
and  shamed  her  trusting  womanhood.  Yet  sympathy 
even  here  is  for  the  man.  Why  is  he  so  lovable  ?  Until 
he  was  a  very  old,  enfeebled  man  he  showed  no  depth  of 
feehng,  no  clearly  admirable  quahty  save  just  that  love 
for  children.  It  is  the  strange  genius  of  Jefferson  that 
appeals.  By  a  gesture  or  an  expression  he  touches  the 
wellsprings  of  mirth  and  tears.  He  puzzles.  One 
could  feel  almost  like  challenging  his  right  to  evoke 
emotion  on  such  sHght  pretext.  Opinions  differ;  but 
in  the  mind  of  the  writer  Jefferson  is  strongest  in  both 
humor  and  pathos  just  after  he  had  climbed  the  moun- 
tain and  found  himself  surrounded  by  sturdy  Dutch 
ghosts  who  carried  kegs.  Here  was  pathos  infinite. 
How  ? — why  ?  There  is  no  answer.  That  gaunt  figure, 
that  expressive  face  changed  to  seriousness,  that  half 
frightened  effort  to  be  courteous  and  at  ease.  ...  It  is 
a  simple  scene,  and  yet  no  man  who  has  seen  it  will  ever 
forget.  He  laughs  deep  in  the  heart  of  him  and  yet 
could  almost  weep  for  memory's  sake.  .  .  .  How  does 
Jefferson  do  it  ?  It  is  the  truest  humor,  the  kind  that  is 
breathed  from  the  heart  with  a  sigh.  There  is  nothing 
[217] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

like  the  humor  and  pathos  of  Joseph  Jefferson.  You 
have  seen  a  woman,  moved  to  the  depths,  laugh  softly 
while  her  eyes  were  wet.  .  .  .  'Tis  something  like  that. 

Richard  Mr.  Richard  Mansfield  and  an  excellent  supporting 
Mansfield  company  presented  "Julius  Caesar"  at  the  Academy  of 
Music  last  night,  and  pleased  the  largest  theatrical  au- 
dience that  has  ever  been  seen  in  this  city. 

For  more  than  four  hours  the  play  held  the  close  at- 
tention of  the  audience,  yet  interest  never  waned  and 
applause  was  continuous.  Though  at  the  end  of  the 
performance  disparaging  remarks  were  made  by  a  few 
captious  critics,  the  general  sentiment  of  the  audience 
was  unmistakable.  The  play  and  the  players  had  won 
immense  favor. 

Mr.  Mansfield  was  a  stranger  here,  though  a  large 
proportion  of  Charlotte  people  had  seen  him  abroad  in 
other  and  lighter  plays,  and  waited  with  curiosity  the 
sterner  work  that  is  involved  in  his  interpretation  of  the 
character  of  Brutus.  Because  of  the  nature  of  the  play 
Mr.  Mansfield  won  commendation  only  gradually.  In 
the  first  act  he  figures  not  largely;  in  the  second  act  he 
is  not  at  his  best ;  but  in  the  last  four  acts  his  impersona- 
tion of  Brutus  was  the  mainspring  of  the  play,  and  at 
times  he  was  superb  in  the  understanding  art  that  must 
live  on  genius. 

The  correctness  of  his  interpretation  of  the  character 
of  Brutus  may  be  questioned,  but  it  was  fascinating. 
Brutus,  portrayed  by  Mr.  Mansfield,  was  curiously 
quiet  and  morose  in  disposition.  Before  the  assassina- 
tion of  Caesar,  Brutus  wore  a  haunted,  wretched  look,  as 
[218] 


MUSIC  AND  DRAMA 

if  he  was  a  victim  of  remorse  or  was  oppressed  with  hor-  Richard 
rible  stage  fright.  He  seemed  to  pose  occasionally,  space,  ^^s"®^** 
and  most  of  his  strongest  utterances  were  delivered  in  a 
tense,  low  voice.  Inwardly  he  suffered  the  agonies  of 
the  damned.  Outwardly, he  was  the  soul  of  quietude; 
except  in  certain  moments  when  the  actor,  starthng  one 
with  the  rapidity  of  the  change  in  his  demeanor,  became 
a  creature  of  fire  and  passion. 

Mr.  Mansfield  made  the  life  of  Brutus  climatical  in  a 
mournful  key.  Brutus,  the  noblest  Roman  of  them  all, 
was  accursed  by  a  deed  committed  through  a  sense  of 
duty;  he  never  tasted  happiness;  and  his  mournful- 
ness  gave  to  his  Ufe  a  certain  majestic  simplicity  and 
resignation  that  were  not  lost  even  in  the  memorable 
quarrel  with  Cassius,  or  in  the  ardor  of  battle.  While 
other  men — other  conspirators — talked  and  planned, 
Brutus  stood  near  by,  alone,  silent  if  he  might  be; 
brooding  with  a  far-away  look  on  his  face. 
*    *    * 

Mr.  Mansfield's  conception  showed  a  Brutus  who 
was  to  be  admired  or  pitied,  but  not  liked;  and  there- 
fore Mr.  Mansfield's  success  in  the  character  is  due  to 
art  and  art  alone.  Without  effort,  or  by  no  high-sound- 
ing words,  he  made  himself  the  central  figure  on  the 
stage.  He  seemed  to  pose  occasionally,  for,  unavoid- 
ably, there  was  posing  in  the  life  of  Brutus;  but  it  was 
the  simple  reahsm  of  Mr.  Mansfield's  part  that  made 
it  frequently  great,  and  interesting  at  all  times.  As  an 
orator  or  in  other  incidents  of  the  forum  scene,  or  as  a 
warrior,  he  was  less  attractive  than  in  showing  bare  hu- 
man touches:  the  brief  scene  with  Portia;  the  weari- 
[219] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Richard  ness  and  suffering  in  his  tent ;  the  love  for  Cassius  and 
Mansfield  poj-^-jg^  expressed  in  a  look  or  a  gesture ;  or  the  terror  in 
the  ghost  scene  —  Mr.  Mansfield's  personality  was 
there.  One  marked  it  in  that  unforgettably  clean  and 
crisp  enunciation,  in  the  glare  of  his  odd  eyes  and  in  the 
characteristic  tilting  of  his  chin;  but  if  one  did  not  for- 
get Mansfield  he  yet  saw  Brutus  as  a  vital  being  whose 
honor  was  supreme  and  whose  suffering  was  so  keen 
that  he  looked  gladly  on  death. 

Mr.  Mansfield's  support  was  well-nigh  perfect — in 
keeping  with  his  reputation  for  always  having  a  well- 
balanced  company.  Mr.  Arthur  Forrest,  in  the  always 
popular  part  of  Marc  Antony,  looked  and  acted  his  part 
in  a  manner  that  never  failed  to  provoke  prolonged  ap- 
plause. He  is  a  big  fellow  with  an  expressive  counte- 
nance and  a  voice  that,  he  handles  remarkably  well; 
and  the  adroit  use  of  this  same  voice  in  the  burial  scene 
was  very  clever  indeed.  Rivalling  Mr.  Forrest  for  hon- 
ors was  Mr.  Paulding  as  Cassius,  a  part  that  he  sus- 
tained wonderfully  well.  Between  these  two  men  and 
Mr.  Mansfield  or  other  leading  members  of  the  com- 
pany there  was  none  of  the  difference  in  ability  that  so 
often  mars  a  production.  The  entire  supporting  com- 
pany did  work  that  was  in  keeping  with  the  pace  set  by 
Mr.  Mansfield.  Mr.  Arthur  Greenaway  was  a  very 
tired  and  listless  Caesar,  but  his  resemblance  to  the  sup- 
posed visage  of  the  distinguished  Roman  would  have 
caused  one  to  overlook  faults  that  were  not  at  all 
serious. 

Only  two  women  took  leading  parts:  Miss  Maude 
Hoffman  as  Calphurnia  and  Miss  Dorothy  Hammond 
[  220] 


MUSIC  AND  DRAMA 

as  Portia — ^two  characters  that  were  cleverly  and  grace- 
fully portrayed. 

The  scenery  was  magnificent — a  typical  Mansfield 
production.  No  more  than  that  need  be  said  in  praise. 
All  the  accessories  or  furnishings  of  the  stage  showed 
the  highest  point  of  artistic  discrimination;  and  it  may 
be  added  that  the  local  Roman  recruits  who  enlisted 
here  did  their  parts  well  and  added  proper  color  to  the 
stirring  mob  scenes  in  the  play. 

As  has  been  indicated,  the  play  was  received  with 
every  evidence  of  great  liking.  Numerous  times  Mr. 
Mansfield  was  interrupted  in  his  utterances  by  applause 
that  was  general  and  spontaneous.  He  resisted  even 
the  most  prolonged  efforts  to  make  him  respond  to  a 
curtain  call.  Mr.  Forrest,  who  was  a  universal  favorite, 
was  the  only  actor  who  consented  to  come  before  the 
curtain  and  make  his  bow. 

The  most  remarkable  grand  opera  voice  that  the  A  Chinese 
writer  ever  heard  was  in  the  head  of  a  heathen.  'Twas  d"^^ 
in  Shanghai,  and  a  young  swell  among  the  Chinese  said 
he  knew  about  a  famous  sing-song  girl  from  Soochow 
who  was  appearing  in  one  of  the  native  theatres  and 
attracting  no  end  of  attention.  He  invited  the  writer  to 
go  around  and  hear  the  vocalizing.  The  prima  donna 
appeared  in  a  place  that  was  packed  with  Chinese,  who 
showed  as  much  appreciation  as  can  be  given  by  a  stolid 
and  unemotional  people.  Her  small  form  was  clothed 
in  the  richest  silks ;  her  hair  reeked  with  cocoanut  oil 
and  glistened  with  green  jade  things  and  diamonds; 
her  lips  were  painted  to  a  brilliant  red  and  her  feet  were 
[221] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

compressed  to  the  size  of  an  infant's.  In  her  hand  she 
held  a  one-string  guitar-sort  of  an  arrangement,  and  as 
she  sang  she  played  an  accompaniment.  And  it  is  a 
truth  that  from  the  time  that  little  female  opened  her 
mouth  to  sing  until  she  was  too  exhausted  to  chirp  she 
held  the  same  weird,  high  note  that  provokes  fulsome 
praise  from  a  metropolitan  audience.  But  the  high  note 
was  all  she  had  in  her  repertoire;  she  took  it  from  the 
jump  and  couldn't  have  come  under  it  if  she  had  tried. 
In  other  words,  she,  a  heathen — just  like  lots  of  heathen 
— found  naturally  a  thing  that  civihzation  in  its  highest 
art  seeks  for  incessantly  and  seldom  obtains. 

Music  at  And,  by  the  sacred  name  of  St.  Cecilia,  the  thing 
Twiig  t  (joesn't  seem  right.  Science,  modern  improvements 
and  American  ingenuity  play  false  economics  with  art. 
The  woman  and  the  piano  are  the  acme  of  music,  and 
all  the  claptrap  arrangements  can't  cheapen  the  ideal. 
Even  the  man  who  must  resist  an  impulse  to  join  the 
children  who  dance  to  the  sound  of  the  street  organ  will 
admit  that  the  excessive  amount  of  music-by-machin- 
ery has  a  tendency  to  keep  the  woman  away  from  the 
piano  oftener  than  in  former  days,  yet  he  and  the  world 
that  loves  music  would  not  have  it  so.  The  old-fash- 
ioned way  is  the  best.  Grand  Opera,  Duss,  Creatore — 
they  have  become  essentials,  but  the  music  that  a  man 
reverences  comes  from  the  woman  and  the  piano.  There 
is  memory  of  twilight  above  the  half-bowed  head;  a 
feminine  outline  in  clean,  fresh  white;  a  sure,  easy, 
gentle  touch,  and  then,  maybe,  a  voice,  low  and  full, 
steals  out  of  the  darkened  room.     This  is  the  music 

[  222  ] 


MUSIC  AND  DRAMA 

that   creeps   into   one's   soul   and   lingers   there   for- 
ever. 

The  greatest  ovation  that  has  ever  been  tendered  to  A  Great 
any  one  in  the  Academy  of  Music  was  given  last  night  to  Event 
Madame  Nordica. 

If  Madame  Nordica  had  not  been  in  the  city,  then 
Monsieur  Edouard  de  Reszke  would  have  been  the  re- 
cipient of  this  superlative  testimonial  of  liking;  and  the 
welcome  that  was  showered  upon  Mr,  John  S.  Duss 
and  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  orchestra  was  as 
spontaneous  and  almost  as  warm  as  the  applause  that 
so  persistently  followed  the  two  great  artists. 

The  concert  last  night  was  the  chiefest  event  of  artistic 
character  in  the  life  of  the  community.  The  playhouse 
was  not  so  crowded  as  it  has  been  on  one  or  two  occa- 
sions, but  the  great  majority  of  the  seats  were  taken  by 
an  audience  that  represented  the  culture  and  intelligence 
of  the  best  element  of  North  Carolinians.  In  the  assem- 
bly were  visitors  from  all  parts  of  the  State,  and  the  en- 
semble as  it  was  seen  from  the  stage  was  such  as  to 
cause  both  Madame  Nordica  and  Monsieur  de  Reszke 
to  express  delight  at  their  reception  here  and  to  say  that 
they  had  never  found  readier  appreciation  in  any  audi- 
ence in  any  part  of  the  world.  "^I  responded  to  two  en- 
cores," declared  Madame  Nordica,  who  usually  does 
not  respond  to  more  than  one  call  from  an  audience, 
"because  I  wished  to  do  so.  I  liked  the  atmosphere  of 
sympathy  that  was  created  by  these  people." 

For  half  an  hour  before  the  large  audience  had  fully 
gathered  the  seventy-five  performers  of  Duss — a  well- 
[223] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

A  Great  groomed,  fine-looking  body  of  men — sat  on  a  stage,  un- 
Event  concealed  by  curtain,  and  exchanged  glances  with  the 
spectators. 

At  8:30  o'clock  the  opening  of  the  concert  was  an- 
nounced by  the  appearance  of  John  S,  Duss — this  Duss, 
who  has  made  fame  and  fortune  and  has  so  consistently 
pleased  discriminating  New  Yorkers  and  all  other  peo- 
ples whom  he  confronts.  Beyond  being  the  embodi- 
ment of  grace  and  ease  there  is  nothing  particularly  re- 
markable in  his  appearance.  Yet  you  find  yourself 
lazily  liking  the  thoroughness  of  his  bow  before  he 
mounts  his  little  stand,  and  after  that 

Well,  this  man  does  seem  to  be  in  a  class  by  himself. 
He  poses  as  no  freak,  like  the  agile,  acrobatic  Creatore 
or  others  of  the  Eye-talian  school.  He  appears  simply 
as  a  gentleman  in  dress  clothes,  and  he  impresses  one  as 
being  a  man  who  had  gone  through  all  the  musical 
schools,  had  learned  all  there  is  to  know  about  music, 
and  yet,  retaining  all  his  saneness,  is  perfectly  delighted 
to  appear  in  simplicity  and  exercise  his  knowledge  and 
good  taste  in  bringing  unHmited  pleasure  to  everybody. 

Mr.  Duss  conducts  that  orchestra — conducts  it  with 
his  body  and  soul;  and  it  breathes  true  and  fine  and 
strong  in  response  to  his  slightest  gesture.  Every  num- 
ber that  was  given  solely  by  the  orchestra  was  encored 
and  encored,  and  Duss  bowed  and  bowed  and  was  com- 
placent until  further  generosity  was  out  of  the  question. 
An  attempt  at  analytical  criticism  of  Duss's  music  would 
be  absurd.  The  pieces  were  there — exquisite.  And 
in  the  hands  of  Duss  they  were  simpler  and  better  than 
in  the  hands  of  any  other  man  in  America. 

[224] 


MUSIC  AND  DRAMA 

Then  Madame  Nordica  came!  Of  course  she  was  A  Great 
superbly  dressed.  That  was  an  incident.  One  saw  it  ^^^^^ 
at  a  glance  and  forgot  it.  This  personality  was  so  vital, 
so  Hkable.  She  came  not  wearing  stage  habit,  but  as  a 
queenly  lady,  or,  better,  a  gracious  woman.  And  the 
house  seemed  to  speak  to  her  as  with  one  voice,  and 
gave  her  a  greeting  that  has  been  given  to  no  other 
stranger  that  has  ever  come  to  this  town. 

First  she  sang  not  the  number  on  the  programme, 
but  an  aria  from  II  Trovatore.  Here  the  pencil  pauses, 
and  this  poor,  lame  critic  would  let  his  hand  be  palsied 
before  he  would  endeavor  to  define  the  art  of  Madame 
Nordica  with  cold,  technical  words.  Technique !  What 
is  that  ?  This  woman  just  sang — sang  living,  pulsing 
song,  and  one  fresh  from  her  presence  swears  that  she 
sang  as  no  one  else  can  sing.  She  was  as  simple  as  a 
child  and  as  grand  as  a  princess ;  and  her  music  stole 
surely  into  the  senses  and  lingered  and  helped.  God 
has  been  very  good  to  this  lady. 

They  showered  her  with  flowers — very  many  flowers. 
Among  the  gifts  was  a  small  and  beautiful  plant  that 
bore  one  hundred  and  fifty  pure  white  roses.  And 
again  and  again  the  audience  begged  to  be  indulged  and 
was  gratified.  There  were  never  more  delighted  listeners, 
never  a  woman  who  seemed  to  be  so  glad  to  please. 

Such  cordial  relationship  was  the  keynote  of  the  even- 
ing. 'Twas  there  when  Monsieur  de  Reszke  appeared. 
He  was  almost  swept  off  his  feet  by  the  applause  that 
was  only  faint  testimonial  of  the  great  admiration  for 
his  big,  wondrous  voice.  He,  too,  was  kindly  and  ac- 
quiescent to  every  demand;  and  the  ovation  reached 
15  [225] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

intensity  when  at  length  the  two  artists  appeared  and 
sang  together.  The  evening  was  one  that  will  live  in 
memory.  Nordica — de  Reszke — Duss!  Ah,  the 
South  is  being  blessed  just  now! 

He      *      * 

The  local  public  will  be  gratified  to  learn  that  the 
concert  was  a  financial  success.  It  would  have  been 
exceedingly  profitable  had  it  not  been  for  the  fact  that 
an  exciting  political  election  which  was  interesting  to 
the  greater  part  of  the  town  unavoidably  prevented 
many  persons  from  going  to  the  Academy. 

Nordica  One  wonders  how  Nordica  will  be  judged  by  the 
Lord.  He  gave  her  that  marvellous  voice,  but  through 
the  long  years  she  has  worked  hard  and  treasured  her 
talent  so  that  she  might  give  pleasure  to  thousands  upon 
ten  thousands  of  people.  She  has  done  vast  and  last- 
ing good.  Her  music  has  the  beautifullest  influence. 
It  betters  and  purifies,  somehow.  No  man  with  good 
in  him  can  hear  that  voice  without  being  refined  and 
eased.  Month  after  month  for  a  quarter  of  a  century 
and  more  that  voice  has  been  lifting  care  from  tired 
hearts  and  brightening  lives.  The  best  music  is  like 
unto  the  sweetness  of  Christianity;  and  Nordica  has 
had  so  much  of  the  best  to  give.  At  the  highest  ebb 
man  can  do  no  more  than  please  and  bless  humanity, 
and  Nordica  has  done  both.  Her  private  life  ?  It  is  all 
right,  but  suppose  it  were — anything.  The  offering  of 
that  woman  at  the  last  might  Kft  into  Paradise  a  soul 
as  black  as  Egypt's  night. 

[226] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

REFLECTIONS   ON  LIFE   AND   DEATH 

The  real  secret  of  the  greatest  happiness  consists  in  Human 
the  entertainment  and  gratification  of  genuine  wants,  ^ 

and  a  curse  of  hving  is  in  the  fact  that  as  one  grows 
older  his  wants  decrease  in  simplicity  or  ask  the  im- 
possible. To  so  live  that  one  may  become  very  hungry 
and  then  eat;  to  become  heated  and  exhausted  after  a 
long  walk  and  then  to  come  to  a  cool  spring,  surmounted 
by  maidenhair  ferns — that  is  a  primitive  life  that  man 
needlessly  parts  company  with.  And  the  power  to  want 
something  intensely,  in  mental  or  emotional  way,  is  a 
sign  of  the  fuller  living  that  is  marked  in  few  people. 
To  be  seized  with  a  fierce  desire  to  do  a  great  thing,  or 
to  want  a  woman  until  the  heart  aches — how  much  of  a 
namby-pamby  world  understands  ?  .  .  .  It  is  this  power 
of  want  that  provides  the  pleasures  and  sorrows  and 
tragedies,  and  the  heart  that  want  leaves  is  desolate 
and  dead. 

Do  you  know  that  the  httle  mean  things  you  say  Cattish 
about  people  do  not  die?  The  way  this  truth  is  evi-  ^°^"s*^ 
denced  here  would  be  amusing  if  it  were  not  so  sad. 
The  firm,  outspoken  expression  of  opinion  is  always 
tolerable,  even  if  it  hurt  in  condemnation.  It  is  the  sly, 
cattish  thrusts  that  are  not  forgiven.  They  may  not  be 
[227] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

big  enough  for  resentment,  but  they  rankle  and  breed 
bitterness.  Everybody  knows  everybody  else — knows 
weakness,  at  least.  Be  sure  of  that.  The  knowledge 
that  we  have  of  one  another  is  one  of  the  ghastliest 
things  in  all  living.  Every  man  assumes  the  greatest 
risk  when  he  sits  in  judgment  upon  another  man.  He 
is  safe  and  respected  only  when  he  does  this  bravely, 
with  an  effort  to  be  fair.  You,  be  you  man  or  woman, 
who  make  a  practice  of  doling  out  malice  in  confidential 
utterances — you  are  marked.  This  is  one  of  the  every- 
day things  that  everybody  knows  to  be  true.  Above  all 
men,  the  foolish  whisper  of  evil  is  most  despised. 

The  Tiger  And  some  one  else  has  said  that  the  greatest  trouble 
in  Man  g^j^Q^^  sinning  is  the  mad,  useless  longing  to  sin  all  over 
again.  This  is  only  discursive  quotation.  The  pleas- 
ure and  peace  that  are  not  based  on  self-denial  are  not 
worth  a  picayune;  and  there  is  no  positive  basis  of  hap- 
piness apart  from  the  Christian  religion.  For  this  and 
for  that  a  man  would  like  to  tilt  his  chin  and  stroll  hell- 
wards,  but  there  is  unrest  on  the  way  and  the  sweetness 
turns  bitter  as  gall.  The  unhappiness  of  doing  as  you 
please  and  the  happiness  of  doing  as  you  don't  please 
are  as  bothersome  to  Ben,  the  orphan  boy,  who  drives 
the  donkey,  as  they  are  to  the  fine  lady  in  the  frou-frou 
clothes,  and  the  venerable  gentleman  who  leans  on  his 
cane  and  looks  back  on  seventy  years  of  toil  and  fretful- 

ness. 

*    *    * 

The  observant  man  was  talking  about  these  things 
the  other  day,  and  he  said  it  was  unfair  to  lay  down 
[228I 


REFLECTIONS  ON  LIFE  AND  DEATH 

rules  for  general  application  because  some  people  had 
tigers  and  some  hadn't  tigers.  By  tigers  he  meant  hot, 
impulsive  blood — the  ardent  temperament  that  is  as 
apt  to  curse  as  to  bless ;  an  inherited  thing  that  puts  up 
a  fight  during  a  lifetime.  The  untigered  folk  are  the 
untempted,  serene  and  patronizing  minority  who  make 
laws  for  the  rest  of  mankind.  They  would  accept  Uto- 
pia as  a  deserved  property,  and  their  certainty  of  a 
crown  in  the  hereafter  is  based  upon  their  lack  of  wish 
to  do  the  deeds  that  send  people  to  the  lower  regions. 
They  have  unhmited  satisfaction,  but  no  capacity  for 
suffering,  and  no  fun.  The  observant  man  said  it  was 
the  tigered  people  who  put  their  arms  around  you  when 
you  wept,  and  that  the  other  kind  didn't  understand — 
somehow.  He  said  that  the  chief  est  joy  in  living  is  to 
conquer  the  tiger,  but  that  he'd  rather  be  conquered  by 
it  than  to  never  feel  the  hard,  quick  leap  of  the  inner 
breast. 

As  a  rule,  the  real  students  of  human  nature  are  the  Sympathetic 
men  who  say  little  and  make  no  pretensions  to  sociolog-  °^^^ 
ical  knowledge.  As  you  wander  in  the  crowd  you  find, 
now  and  then,  but  not  often,  a  man  who  looks  at  you 
with  clear,  seeing  eyes,  and  you  feel  that  he  knows  you. 
He  has  the  faculty  of  sizing  up  a  man  at  a  glance ;  which 
means  that  he  has  inherited  a  great  gift,  and  has  made 
good  use  of  it.  He  is  apt  to  be  the  right  sort  of  a  man; 
for  any  one  who  understands  himself  and  other  men 
must  have  sympathy  and  charity  in  his  heart.  He  is  apt 
to  be  a  self-contained  man  who  speaks  deliberately  and 
kindly,  and  would  prefer  to  listen  to  the  talk  of  other 
[229] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

people.  He  knows  that  weakness  in  the  world  is  much 
more  prevalent  than  strength,  and  that  it  is  very  hard 
indeed  for  any  one  to  be  strong;  and  so  he  condones 
weakness  as  far  as  possible  and  admires  strength  wher- 
ever he  finds  it.  This  is  a  feeble  effort  to  classify  the 
exceptional  man  who  learns  to  know  liis  fellows  through 
the  process  of  sympathy — and  that  is  the  only  right 
way  to  know  mankind.  Facing  such  a  man  the  weakest 
person  is  not  terrified,  for  he  knows  that  the  bad  is  not 
allowed  to  shroud  whatever  good  there  may  be,  and  that 
the  inevitable  judgment  will  not  be  little,  or  nagging,  or 
unreasonable.  No,  you  don't  fear  the  man  who  knows 
you,  but  you  do  fear,  and  suffer  most  from,  the  super- 
cilious person  who  thinks  he  knows  you,  and  finds  mo- 
tives where  you  haven't  motives — the  person  who  seeks 
for  evil  and  broods  over  your  unguarded  moments. 
This  man — he  moves  in  legions — ^is  so  blinded  by  con- 
ceit that  he  does  not  know  himself.  He  is  none  other 
than  the  captious  critic  who  is  to  be  met  on  every  street 
corner.  His  infrequent  charity  lacks  tact,  and  is  not 
helpful  because  it  is  not  sincere.  The  other  kind  of  a 
man,  who  looks  deep  into  human  nature,  breaks  his  si- 
lence to  speak  the  charity  that  keeps  the  world  straight 
and  makes  life  good  and  sweet.  For  the  knowing  of 
human  nature  exacts  charity  and  kindUness,  not  as 
virtues,  but  necessary  things. 

Flaws      And — make  no  mistake  about  this — all  your  bad 

quaUties  are  thoroughly  known.    In  this  regard  no  one 

can  fool  an  individual  or  a  community.    Your  amiable 

disposition  and  your  good  motives  may  be  misjudged, 

[230] 


REFLECTIONS  ON  LIFE  AND  DEATH 

but  the  child  that  stays  at  your  elbow  for  three  days 
spots  the  meanness  in  you.  This  is  a  truth  that  some 
people  seem  to  learn  very  late  in  Hfe,  for  they  are  for- 
ever leaving  down  hurtful  gaps  by  picking  flaws  in  the 
rest  of  the  human  herd.  When  you  were  very  small  you 
may  have  quarrelled  with  a  brother  or  a  sister,  with 
whom  you  had  been  on  good  terms  for  a  long  time.  Do 
you  remember  how  quickly  your  new  enemy  turned  on 
you  with  taunts  and  showed  you  that  you  had  been 
watched  narrowly  all  the  while,  that  every  little  dirty 
deed  was  remembered,  every  weakness  was  correctly 
marked,  and  that  sins  and  weaknesses,  thought  to  be 
hidden,  were  naked  under  observant  eyes?  All  your 
life  you  do  not  escape  from  that  sort  of  a  game.  You 
can  rend  and  tear  and  analyze.  That  is  your  privilege. 
But  do  not  be  such  a  fool  as  to  think  you  deceive  any- 
body about  the  WTong  that  is  in  you ;  for  the  notorious 
knowledge  of  your  faults  is  a  penalty  you  have  to  pay 
for  living.  This  is  another  one  of  the  little  just-so  things 
that  people  don't  stop  to  think  about  often  enough. 

The  world's  mind,  as  a  composite  proposition,  seems  New  Year's 
to  be  a  feeble,  narrow  thing  at  times.  Just  now  all  hu-  ^^°  ^  ^°°^ 
mor  seems  to  hinge  on  the  man  who  makes  New  Year's 
resolutions  and  breaks  them.  Puck  and  Judge,  always 
reeking  with  common  ideas  and  commoner  wit,  will  be 
surcharged  with  such  humor  at  this  season;  and  the 
other  comic  papers  are  printing  the  same  old  inane  an- 
ecdotes. The  hackneyed  spluttering  of  humor  is  heard 
here;  and  yet  where  is  the  room  for  laughter?  The 
world  swears  off  and  tries  to  do  better.  It  drops  back 
[231] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

to  old  habits.  That  is  tragedy.  But  it  ought  to  be  seri- 
ously and  solemnly  patted  on  the  back  for  the  little 
spurt.  It  is  something  for  some  men  to  be  decent  to 
their  wives  for  three  days ;  to  get  sober  even  for  forty- 
eight  hours;  an  annual  miracle  when  some  men  taste 
unselfishness  for  an  hour;  and  there  is  wholesomeness 
even  in  a  faint  wish  to  do  better.  How  foolish  and 
young  and  ineffectual  mankind  must  look  in  the  eyes  of 
Heaven?  Most  men  want  to  be  good,  and  can't  be 
.  good.  The  world  is  full  of  hope — full,  too,  of  brooding 
sadness  that  may  become  intensified  by  disappoint- 
ment. There's  so  much  pathos  in  the  weak  httle 
wishes.  And  good,  too.  The  most  brutal  thing  that 
was  ever  written  was  "The  road  to  hell  is  paved  with 
good  intentions."  By  a  token  of  mercy,  a  man  who 
honestly  has  good  intentions  all  the  way  round  has  no 
business  being  in  hell. 

The  Big  When  the  big  passions  work  you  never  know  what 
assions  ^^^^  -^  going  to  do  to  his  fellow  man.  The  story  of  those 
women  being  torn  and  trampled  in  the  Chicago  fire  is 
really  an  old  story  in  a  way.  The  normal  man  cannot 
conceive  that  he  will  ever  be  worked  up  to  the  point 
where,  through  fright,  he  would  crush  or  slay  a  woman 
or  a  child,  yet  to  such  pitch  of  frenzy  seeming  good  men 
are  sometimes  roused.  The  thought  of  what  a  man  may 
do  because  of  fear  and  may  or  may  not  do  because  of  love 
suggests  alarming  possibilities.  In  ordinary  situations 
a  man  is  schooled  and  can  depend  upon  himself.  He  is 
an  educated  creature  who  has  imbibed  creeds  and  rules 
that  spell  civilization.  But  underneath  it  all  there  is 
[232] 


REFLECTIONS  ON  LIFE  AND  DEATH 

the  primeval  man,  the  animal  thing  that  is  reasonless,  The  Big 
fierce,  and  may  be  cruel  beyond  expression  when,  by  ^^lons 
some  untoward  chance,  it  is  provoked  into  quick,  ruth- 
less action.  It  is  ghastly  to  see  anything  that  is  thor- 
oughly frightened.  Fear  on  the  face  of  a  beast  is  both 
pitiful  and  revolting,  but  in  all  living  there  is  scarcely 
anything  that  is  so  appalling  as  a  man  who  is  convulsed 
by  fear;  and  the  worst  fear  is  that  which  faces  a  man  un- 
expectedly, gives  him  no  time  for  preparation,  scatters 
his  other  senses,  and  puts  the  look  of  an  animal  behind 
human  eyes.  Such  fear  has  no  real  likeness  to  coward- 
ice. It  strikes  while  cowardice  whimpers  and  covers  its 
eyes.  Neither  quality  is  forgivable,  though,  Hke  the 
character  of  a  fool,  it  is  no  more  than  a  badge  of  an- 
cestry. 

*    *    * 

The  fearful  man  is  most  to  be  feared.  Once  the  writer 
saw  a  man  run  amuck.  He  was  a  great,  powerful  East 
Indian.  Heat  or  drink  worked  on  his  brain,  and  he  ran 
out  of  a  dive  in  an  eastern  port,  irresponsible,  with  treble 
strength,  and  with  an  unthinking  lust  to  slay.  Even  as 
he  charged  a  crowd,  with  the  wild  intent  of  murder,  it 
was  seen  that  no  bravery  was  on  his  face.  'Twas  fear. 
The  great  awakened  spirit  of  fear  was  in  his  rolhng  eyes 
and  governed  his  powerful  limbs.  Fear  of  himself! 
Some  devil  of  fear  was  leaping  in  him.  It  hurled  him 
to  the  supremest  ebb  of  emotion — was  the  greatest  sen- 
sation he  could  feel.  Such  things  are  not  good  to  look 
upon  and  let  live,  and  so  they  jammed  back  into  a  cor- 
ner and  slew  him,  though  even  as  he  fought  back  with 
the  energy  of  a  maddened  tiger  his  face  pictured  the 
[233] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  Big  fear  that  tore  at  his  vitals  and  came  out  to  stamp  horror 
Passions  ^^  ^  ^^^^  ^j^^^  ^^^  ^g^^_ 

*     *     * 

There  is  another  kind  of  fear  that  is  also  unforgiva- 
ble. Years  ago  the  writer  read  an  odd  little  story  and 
somehow  he  has  never  forgotten  it.  A  man  and  a 
woman  were  out  driving.  They  were  engaged.  Both 
were  all  they  should  have  been.  So  much  was  told  by 
suggestion.  The  horses,  big  black  fellows,  ran  away. 
Faster  and  faster  they  went,  and  death  or  great  bodily 
harm  seemed  inevitable.  The  man  thought  only  of  the 
woman.  He  thought  rapidly,  sensitively.  He  saw  in 
imagination  a  crash,  saw  the  woman  dragged  under  the 
wheels  of  the  vehicle  and  mutilated.  .  .  .  He  would 
have  leaned  over  and  seized  her  with  violent,  tender 
strength  and  Hfted  her  out  of  danger.  As  the  spasm  of 
fear  struck  him  he  leaped  from  the  buggy.  A  second 
later  he  would  have  surrendered  his  soul  if  he  could 
have  undone  his  act.  His  fear  for  the  woman  had  gov- 
erned him.  Yet  he  had  jumped.  A  httle  further  on 
there  was  a  colhsion,  and  the  woman  was  thrown  out 
and  only  sUghtly  injured.  She  arose  and  faced  the  man. 
There  was  nothing  to  say,  or  rather  everything  was  said 
in  a  look.  She,  by  some  intuition,  understood  him  per- 
fectly; did  not  misjudge  his  motive.  He  knew  she  un- 
derstood. But  he  had  jumped.  'Twas  wearisome — 
that  knowledge,  but  neither  could  ever  forget.  That 
was  the  end.  The  story  :s  fruitful  with  ideas.  So  many 
people  jump;  or  lose  happiness  or  reputation  by  the 
action  of  a  second.  When  the  big  sleeping  things  awake, 
what  then?  .  .  .  God  knows. 
[234] 


REFLECTIONS  ON  LIFE  AND  DEATH 

While  loitering  in  an  old  churchyard  in  Cheraw,  S.  C,  Reflections 
a  few  days  ago,  Mr.  J.  F.  Ware,  of  this  city,  found  a  churchyard 
tomb  that  is  evidently  very  old,  though  it  bears  no  date. 
On  the  broad  marble  slab  at  the  top  is  this  inscription: 

"  My  name — my  country — what  are  they  to  thee  ? 
What — whether  high  or  low  my  pedigree  ? 
Perhaps  I  far  surpassed  all  other  men. 
Perhaps  I  fell  below  them  all — what  then  ? 
Sufl&ce  it,  stranger,  that  thou  seest  a  tomb. 
Thou  know'st  its  use;  it  hides  no  matter  whom." 

*      *      * 

One  would  like  to  have  known  the  man  who  wrote 
the  verse.  There  is  in  the  words  the  easy,  sarcastic 
challenge  of  a  man  who  has  lived  life  his  own  way  and 
is  satisfied  to  go  down  at  the  end  in  gaunt  solitude, 
leaving  only  a  taunt  for  the  world  behind  that  would 
have  disturbed  his  privacy  in  looking  for  a  lying  epitaph. 
Maybe  he  had  both  found  and  lost  happiness.  Maybe 
he  had  tasted  pleasure  to  its  depths;  maybe  he  had 
sinned  and  blundered  and  suffered  and  had  dabbled  in 
all  the  little  human  things  that  eat  away  the  joy  of  life. 
So!  Let  it  pass  at  that.  He  would  be  shielded  in  his 
shroud;  obliterated;  forgotten  eternally.  Strange  yet 
understandable  pride!  Tombstones — some  tombstones 
— grow  hoary  with  age  in  spelling  a  hideous  lie — scream- 
ing virtues  above  dry  bones  that  cannot  escape  the 
mockery.  This  man  wanted  his  tomb  to  say  nothing 
except  to  rebuke  curiosity.  Here  lies  a  dead  man!  He 
has  played  out  the  game — how  or  when  it  is  none  of  your 
affair.  There  was  a  brief  tilt  with  Fate,  and  when 
Death  came  he  saw  only  one  last  inscrutable  smile  and 
[235] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Reflections  a  slight  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  The  man-thing,  blown 
Churchyard  ^°  ^^^^  from  feeble  clay,  had  played  his  part,  not  ser- 
vilely or  in  fear  of  the  little  frowning  gods  created  here 
below,  and  he  would  go  back  to  dust  and  stay  as  dust 
under  the  canopy  where  human  breath  flutters  but  little 
longer  than  the  daisies  grow. 

*    *    * 

The  question  has  been  asked.  Would  you,  if  you  were 
allowed  to  do  so,  live  your  life  all  over  again?  The 
query  calls  forth  profitless  thought,  but  would  you? 
Would  you  be  wilHng  or  glad  to  start  at  the  beginning 
and  go  through — everything  again?  Think!  Look 
back,  count  pleasure  and  grief,  peace  and  unrest.  Does 
it,  as  a  whole,  seem  good  and  sweet  to  you  ?  Would  you 
consent  to  take  up  the  sorrow  for  the  sake  of  the  hap- 
piness that  came  to  you  ?  If  you  say  yes,  then  you  may 
be  one  of  two  kinds  of  people — a  fine  healthy  animal 
who  loves  the  memory  of  basking  in  the  sunshine,  or  a 
person  whose  senses  were  strung  taut  in  the  keenness 
of  living  and  yet,  seeing  both  the  lights  and  the  shadows, 
is  not  afraid  or  ashamed.  There  is  a  third  element 
which  need  not  be  considered.  In  this  there  be  those 
who  look  back  hopelessly  .  .  .  here  a  restless  majority 
who  cling  to  the  future  as  the  only  salvation  in  a  mael- 
strom— as  against  loss  irretrievable.  'Tis  a  pleasant 
pastime  to  speculate  about  the  quality  of  hell  that 
awaits  the  other  man — and  easier,  rather,  than  to  gaze 
into  the  nice,  yawning  little  hell  that  we  may  have 
builded  right  here  on  our  own  account.  Probably  you'd 
better  not  start  to  thinking  on  this  subject. 
[236] 


REFLECTIONS  ON  LIFE  AND  DEATH 

"Whiskey  drinking,"  said  the  old  barkeeper,  "is  the  A 
curse  of  the  world,  but  men  will  drink  so  long  as  men  yfew^^  ^ 
are  men.  Since  I  have  been  passing  drinks  across  the 
counter  I  have  seen  all  manner  of  tragedies,  and  it  is  a 
mistake  to  suppose  that  a  bartender  grows  callous, 
though  his  Hfe  would  be  easier  if  he  were  Hke  that.  We 
must  be  polite  and  attentive,  but  I  have  seen  the  time 
when  it  was  hard  to  keep  from  being  a  mere  man  and 
preaching  temperance  as  I  handed  liquor  to  a  customer. 
Our  Hfe  affords  unlimited  study  of  human  nature.  I 
have  seen  all  the  gradations,  and  after  years  of  thought 
I  have  reached  a  few  conclusions  that  are  not  new.  One 
man  in  a  thousand  may  drink  safely.  The  others  are 
threatened  always,  and  this  side  the  danger-line  they 
are  travelling  with  a  curb  bit.  The  man  who  sticks  to 
three  drinks  a  day  is  a  miracle.  A  man  who  inherits  a 
thirst  from  his  father  and  grandfather  may  be  a  teeto- 
taller until  he  is  fifty,  but  he  may  expect  delirium 
tremens  any  time  after  he  ceases  to  be  a  total  abstainer. 
I  have  seen  a  town  bum  sober  up  and  become  a  respect- 
able member  of  society,  and  I  have  a  good  deal  of  faith 
in  the  Keeley  cure;  but  the  gentleman  who  begins  to 
get  drunk  after  he  is  thirty  years  old  might  as  well  shoot 
himself  and  save  his  family  physician  the  necessity  of 
lying  as  to  the  cause  of  his  death.  I  have  never  known 
but  one  man  who  had  the  jim-jams  to  escape  a  drunk- 
ard's death.  Paralysis  saved  him.  Whiskey  is  man- 
kind's strongest  common  love.  It  is  the  best  medicine  ' 
in  the  world,  and  as  a  means  of  killing  off  surplus 
population  it  is  surer,  though  slower,  than  the  Black 
Death." 

[237] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  King  The  new  sanitarium  around  the  corner  advertises 
^^"^  that  it  will  cure  the  drug  habit  and  drinking  by  the  im- 
mediate withdrawal  policy,  and  says  that  the  patient  will 
suffer  no  evil  effects  or  inconvenience  therefrom.  He 
will  be  made  a  normal  man  who  normally  doesn't  care 
for  stimulants  or  narcotics.  That  sounds  pretty,  and 
this  is  to  be  no  criticism  of  the  new  method;  but  it  is 
permissible  for  one  to  imagine  that  the  gentleman  who 
has  been  having  pipe  dreams  for  a  quarter  of  a  century 
will  not  be  singing  psalms  of  jubilation  during  the  first 
few  days  after  the  morphine  has  been  removed.  More 
than  all  the  gods  in  the  world,  the  king  drug  receives 
faithful  homage,  and  his  gaunt  hands  forever  tug  at 
the  vitals  of  the  devotees  who  would  be  deserters  from 
his  shrine.  Quit  morphine!  Have  you  ever  seen  any 
one  quitting  morphine?  Quit  the  king  drug  and  smile; 
writhe  on  the  rack  and  laugh — 'tis  the  same.  Whiskey 
means  unrest  and  worry.  Morphine  gives  the  only  ar- 
tificial sensation  that  is  flawless.  A  morphine  existence 
looks  upon  reaUsm  as  a  horrid  purgatory — as  a  rude 
awakening  from  a  fanciful,  soothing  heaven.  'Tis  so. 
Quitting  comes  after  the  sweat  of  agony  beads  the  fore- 
head and  the  teeth  are  jammed  hard  against  the  lip. 
Morphine  is  the  thing  that  the  Lord  makes  people  pay 
dearest  for  playing  with.  It  brings  too  much  happiness 
not  to  demand  misery.  If  the  latter  end  of  morphine 
and  the  quitting  of  morphine  did  not  mean  a  circum- 
scribed but  sure  hell,  every  other  person  that  one  met  on 
the  streets  would  have  dreamy,  unseeing  eyes.  Oh,  the 
philosophy  of  the  doctor  people  is  all  right:  the  only 
way  to  do  a  thing  is  to  do  it.    But  no  man  who  falls  un- 


REFLECTIONS  ON  LIFE  AND  DEATH 

der  the  spell  of  the  king  drug  or  whiskey  ever  quits 
either  without  the  ineffable  torture  of  White  Nights — the 
hard,  dry  clutch  at  the  throat,  the  ache  of  punished 
nerves,  and  the  grim,  wearisome  struggle  over  sickened 
manhood. 

*    *    * 

And  the  lesser  evil,  thirst — do  you  know  what  that 
is?  Perhaps  you  have  toiled  along  in  the  sunshine 
without  water  and  then  you  have  thought  of  a  trickling 
spring  under  moss-covered  rocks.  Perhaps  you  have 
been  so  fever-stricken  that  you  thought  only  of  the 
parching  and  the  easement.  You  call  this  thirst,  and 
yet  it  is  as  a  child's  careless  wish  compared  to  that  other 
thing — the  devilish  thirst  that  plays  with  a  man  and 
shakes  him  like  a  reed  in  the  wind.  .  .  .  Restlessness, 
the  gripe  and  the  gnaw,  the  tongue  that  will  not  moisten, 
the  hands  that  sink  nails  into  flesh,  the  voice  that  must 
be  stifled  from  screaming,  the  vain  cry  against  thrall- 
dom,  and  then  once  more  the  fierce,  keen,  surging  want 
that  shivers  the  very  soul  in  its  madness  and  intensity. 
So!    That  is  thirst. 

"I  am  going  down  to  the  hospital  to  tell  a  young  man  Blind! 
that  he  will  never  see  again,"  said  an  eye  specialist  a 
few  days  ago.  "He  will  be  surprised.  His  eyes  have 
been  affected  only  a  few  days."  Afterward  the  special- 
ist performed  an  operation  that  permitted  the  young 
man  to  see  just  enough  out  of  one  eye  to  keep  out  of  the 
way  of  other  people.  He  will  never  read  again;  never 
again  see  appreciatively  the  beauties  of  the  universe. 
The  incident  will  be  marked  as  ordinary,  though  sad, 
[239] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Blind  and  yet  it  is  a  tragedy  worse  than  death.  Death  is 
kinder  than  a  living  hurt  that  does  not  die,  and  blind- 
ness is  a  part  of  the  loss-wail  which  cries  the  grief  uni- 
versal. Blindness  as  a  physical  evil,  weakness  to  re- 
place strength,  or  the  loss  of  character,  or  the  end  of 
love — these  sum  up  bitterer  distress  than  grief  before  a 
bier.  To  have  a  thing  and  lose  it.  Here  is  the  large 
spring  of  tears — here  mankind's  kinship  in  feebleness. 
Lost!  'Tis  the  most  direful  word  in  the  language.  It 
is  God's  term  to  describe  a  condition  that  we  know  not 
of,  and  it  is  given  to  man  to  wear  it  as  a  badge  of  worst 
mourning.  The  telling  of  all  sorrow  that  one  knows 
could  begin  with  that  one  word.  To  live  after  remem- 
bering happiness  that  is  dead;  to  breathe  and  be 
mocked  by  the  ghost  of  sweetness;  to  lose  beyond  re- 
call— so  comes  the  tragedy  and  the  pathos.  Lost! 
Blind!  There  are  so  much  of  both.  Loss  this  side  the 
grave  is  the  worst,  after  all;  and  the  most  grewsome 
death's  head  is  on  real  flesh  and  blood. 
*    *    * 

Such  unpleasant  reflection  came  involuntarily.  One 
shudders  in  the  face  of  the  calamity  that  befell  the 
young  man,  and  his  condition  appeals  for  sympathy. 
He  will  probably  live  for  a  long  time,  and  one  thinks  of 
the  great  test  that  is  placed  upon  his  bravery,  for  he 
must  now  totter  as  a  memorial  to  loss.  Every  minute 
all  his  fortitude  will  be  required.  The  story  will  re- 
mind Charlotte  people  of  John  Schenck,  who  was  the 
most  active  and  one  of  the  happiest  and  most  success- 
ful young  men  in  this  city.  Suddenly  he  went  blind. 
The  thing  seemed  inconceivable.  His  life  had  been  so 
[  240  ] 


REFLECTIONS  ON  LIFE  AND  DEATH 

promising;  he  had  gloried  in  what  he  saw;  he  had  so 
much  to  do.  But,  stricken,  he  crept  to  his  home  and 
died  through  the  space  of  three  years;  and  one  thinks 
now  that  maybe  heaven  blessed  him  that  way.  For  he 
t«autified  and  enriched  the  little  Ufe  that  was  left  to 
him;  made  it  a  plea  for  unselfishness  and  a  story  of 
love;  triumphed  over  affliction;  and  his  passing  was 
in  sweetness  and  without  fear.  Viewing  the  test  that 
was  placed  upon  John  Schenck  and  others  who  are 
openly  struck  with  a  heavy  hand,  there  is  wonder  as  to 
the  credit  that  will  be  allowed  for  living  just  an  ordi- 
nary life  in  which  no  very  severe  demand  is  made  on 
endurance.  As  a  man  grows  older  he  ceases  to  rail  at 
the  cause  of  suffering ;  for  through  suffering  comes  puri- 
fication and  the  best  in  hfe.  Usually  the  best  people  are 
the  happiest,  but  the  best  happiness  is  the  kind  that 
comes  after  or  through  unhappiness.  This  shines  and 
blesses  with  its  radiance. 

As  the  years  pass  you  find  there  is  such  a  lot  of  death,  Death 
and  you  have  not  lived  long  before  you  realize  that  most 
of  life  is  dying.  No  one  that  you  know  is  spared  the 
touch  of  the  moulded  fingers.  And  as  you  are  forced 
to  look  upon  the  Thing  it  becomes  less  terrible  and  in  a 
stupid,  useless  sort  of  way  you  can  reason  about  it. 
You  find  that  after  all  it  is  a  pretty  easy  sort  of  a  matter 
to  die  and  that  there  are  comparatively  few  people  who 
have  not  died.  You  learn  that  the  Httle  books  that  tell 
about  the  horrors  of  death-bed  scenes  show  a  picture 
that  is  not  usually  seen,  for  in  the  great  majority  of 
cases  you  see  that  the  mental  dread  of  death  decreases 
i6  [ 241  ] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Death  as  the  body  becomes  weaker,  and  the  passing  is  quiet 
and  without  complaint  or  fright.  As  you  hve  and  see 
you  discover  what  has  always  been  known — that  the 
most  natural  event  in  all  Hfe  is  dying,  and  the  gaunt, 
grim  Spectre  terrorizes  only  where  he  grapples  unawares 
and  arranges  to  blot  out  to-day  the  mind  that  had  every 
reason  to  expect  to  be  vigorous  on  the  morrow.  The 
sudden  death  that  in  an  instant  transforms  flesh  and 
brain  to  clay  may  be  kind,  but  the  ghasthest  sound  in 
nature  is  the  surprised  whimper  of  a  man  who  turns 
from  revelHng  in  the  sunshine  to  find  himself  dangling 
over  the  last  abyss — fresh  with  the  fulness  of  living,  yet 
full  of  the  knowledge  that  death  cannot  be  denied.  This 
is,  or  may  be,  hell. 

*    *    * 

This  is  the  kind  of  death  that  shudders  all  mankind 
and  screams  a  tale  of  incompleteness  and  the  neglect 
of  sacred  duties.  At  the  Southern  depot  two  years  ago 
a  young  man  stepped  off  a  train  and  was  struck  by  a 
switch  engine,  the  lower  part  of  his  body  being  crushed 
to  bits.  He  was  carried  into  the  baggage  room  and  laid 
high  on  a  box;  a  physician  examined  him  and  shook 
his  head,  and  the  crowd  stepped  back  and  waited. 
Here  were  all  the  elements  of  a  tragedy.  The  man 
didn't  suffer;  he  was  intensely  aHve,  acutely  conscious, 
and  he  knew  he  couldn't  hve  two  hours.  His  voice, 
desperately  strong,  told  his  misery  in  a  dozen  sentences. 
And  it  was  an  old  story.  He  had  just  trifled  with  things. 
There  was  a  mother,  and  she  was  a  devoted  mother; 
and  some  day  he  had  expected  to  settle  down  and  be 
worthy  of  her  goodness,  but — the  brow  was  now  damp 
[242] 


REFLECTIONS  ON  LIFE  AND  DEATH 

with  death  sweat.  There  was  another  woman.  .  .  . 
He  pulled  a  package  of  letters  from  his  pocket,  fum- 
bled them  and  tried  to  read — and  then  spoke  on.  This 
woman — she  had  been  gentle  and  faithful  and  young 
and  tender,  and  he  had  intended,  some  time,  to  quit 
being  unworthy,  and  show  her  that  he  could  love  un- 
selfishly. But  now !  There  was  nothing  that  was  worth 
while  to  say,  but  he  talked  as  if  he  could  never  have 
done  with  speaking.  He  spoke,  not  incoherently,  but 
feverishly,  as  against  time;  and  one  knew  that  he 
wanted  to  get  up  and  scream  a  protest  that  it  was  all 
a  mistake,  that  the  summons  had  come  too  quick,  that 
he  had  so  many  things  to  do — so  very  many  things  to 
say  and  do.  His  brain  was  keen  in  its  understanding. 
He  saw  his  whole  life  in  an  instant;  saw  the  profitless 
years ;  recognized  all  his  latent  power  for  good,  and  now 
knew  that  the  good  in  him  was  being  stifled  for  an  eter- 
nity. And  as  he  would  have  continued  to  speak  in 
weird,  fearful  fretfulness,  Death  struck  contemptuously 
and  the  wail  went  elsewhere. 

What  becomes  of  the  great  human  good  that  is  killed  An 
before  it  has  a  chance  to  exercise  an  influence?  This  ^"g^ 
is  a  question  that  arises  out  of  the  thought  of  another 
local  tragedy.  There  was  a  woman  here  who  was  all 
that  she  should  have  been.  Through  ten  years  or  more 
she  loved  a  man  and  was  engaged  to  him.  She  did  well 
all  her  duties,  but  her  whole  mind  and  heart  became 
centred  on  her  marriage.  She  waited  patiently  enough, 
and  the  thought  of  her  wedding  day  kept  her  heart 
young,  though  the  touch  of  white  came  to  her  hair. 
[243  J 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Then,  at  last,  the  time  came.  Her  house  wore  green 
and  white;  there  were  carriages  in  front  of  the  door  and 
an  unmistakable  bustle  inside.  For  years  the  bride  had 
read  accounts  of  other  people's  weddings,  and  she 
wanted  a  reporter  at  her  wedding.  He  went  and  was 
taken  into  a  bedroom  where  a  woman  lay  nigh  unto 
death.  But  her  face  was  enraptured.  Every  other  per- 
son in  the  room  looked  anxious,  but  the  bride  was  in 
ecstacies.  This  was  her  wedding  day — a  day  that  all 
her  living  had  been  shaped  to  meet.  And,  so,  she  was 
married.  Because  she  was  just  a  woman  and  a  bride 
the  reporter  was  a  man  to  be  considered,  and  she  spoke 
to  him  with  a  girhsh  flush  on  her  face  and  a  quiver  in 
her  voice.  Would  he  make  them  show  him  the  deco- 
rations and  her  wedding  clothes?  They  were  pretty 
clothes,  she  thought,  and  all  of  them  she  had  made  her- 
self— had  made  years  and  years  ago.  Would  the  re- 
porter please.  .  .  .  And  the  reporter  did — did  write  all 
that  a  man  may  be  allowed  to  write,  and  then,  three 
days  later,  wrote  an  account  of  the  death  of  the  bride. 
But  what  became  of  all  her  preparation,  of  all  her  big, 
beautiful  thoughts,  of  her  deep,  simple  wish  to  be  a  good 
wife  and,  please  God,  a  good  mother. 

''Just  "The  saddest  and  strangest  incident  I  ever  saw  was 
"^  a  suicide  in  Kansas  City  a  few  years  ago,"  said  a  travel- 
ing man  at  the  Buford.  "A  revolver  shot  was  heard  in 
one  of  the  rooms  of  the  hotel  and  those  of  us  who  hur- 
riedly entered  the  room  found  a  young  man  lying  dead. 
He  had  shot  himself  through  the  heart  and  had  died 
almost  instantly.  He  was  a  singularly  handsome  fel- 
[244] 


REFLECTIONS  ON  LIFE  AND  DEATH 

low,  well  groomed  and  carefully  dressed.  I  remember  "Just 
noticing  the  fineness  of  his  linen,  the  slender  links  in 
his  watch  chain,  the  graceful  fit  of  his  clothes,  and  his 
strong,  well-kept  hands.  And  his  face  suggested 
strength  and  character  without  trace  of  weakness.  Some 
man  in  the  room  groaned :  '  My  God !  The  boy  has  made 
a  mistake.  He  had  no  business  to  die.'  On  the  table 
next  to  the  bed  was  the  pencilled  explanation  • 

'"Just  tired.' 

"There  was  also  on  the  table  a  sealed  letter  to  a 
woman.  That  was  all.  The  young  man  was  well- 
known  and  the  papers  had  a  lot  to  say  about  his  sui- 
cide, but  no  cause  was  ever  assigned.  After  everything 
was  said  the  world  merely  knew  that  for  reason  suffi- 
cient unto  himself  the  man  had  wanted  to  die  and  had 
died.  There  was  no  suggestion  of  his  insanity.  He  was 
tired  and  his  life  went  out  at  that." 
*    *    * 

In  the  Western  world  men  say  in  kindness,  kind  or 
unkind,  that  a  self-murderer  suffered  from  temporary 
aberration  of  the  mind,  and  the  words  are  supposed  to 
bring  surcease  of  sorrow  to  relatives.  The  saying  is  nat- 
ural in  a  way,  for  to  the  ordinary,  healthy  mind  the 
thought  of  suicide,  of  deliberately  sending  one's  self  into 
eternity,  is  ghastly  and  revolting.  To  look  with  clear 
eyes  upon  sunlight,  to  hear  the  laughter  of  children,  to 
see  the  beauty  in  all  nature — and  then  to  take  the  privi- 
lege of  deity  and  send  out  a  blackened,  restless  soul  into 
the  unknown!  .  .  .  The  mind  grasps  such  things  fee- 
bly, and,  in  knowing  suffering,  shudders  at  the  limitless 
possibilities  of  human  agony.  Insanity?  So!  It  is 
[  245  ] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

better  so  to  think.  Moreover,  self-death  is  termed  rank 
cowardice,  which,  in  evident  contradiction,  seeks  eter- 
nal chastening.  To  punish  a  palpitating  thing  that 
suffered  till  it  wanted  to  die!  'Tis  hard  to  conceive 
of  that. 

Miirder  I  tell  you  there  is  something  ghastly  in  the  thought  of 
killing  a  Thing  that  can  think  and  talk  and  love  and 
yet  has  such  a  little  while  in  wliich  to  shape  the  destiny 
of  an  immortal  soul.  For  a  mere  man  to  take  the  pre- 
rogatives of  deity  and  fix  the  time  when  that  Thing 
shall  float  out  into  the  Unknown — ah,  that  is  awful! 
What  room  for  brooding!  "I  am  eternally  prodding 
myself  by  puzzHng  over  what  the  other  fellow  might 
have  done  if  he  had  been  allowed  to  Hve,"  was  the  re- 
mark made  to  me  by  a  man  who  had  happened  to  fire 
first. 

*  *    * 

"  Justification — ^justified ! "  Oh,  the  cynical  jest !  The 
judge  and  jury  fade  away,  but  it  is  a  poor,  triumphant 
figure  who  stalks  away  into  White  Nights — into  the 
black  land  of  Remorse.  He  lies  when  he  says  he  finds 
easement.  He  is  so  branded  and  seared  within  himself 
that  his  brain,  stung  beyond  hope  of  cure,  will  agonize 
him  till  he  dies. 

*  *    * 

A  man's  wrestle  over  his  own  soul  is  the  most  stupen- 
dous tragedy.  What  added  and  terrible  burden  there 
must  be  in  being  forever  shrouded  with  the  grave  clothes 
of  another  man — in  conjuring  visions  of  staring  eyes 
and  dank  hair  and  in  speculating  about  the  soul  that 
[246] 


REFLECTIONS  ON  LIFE  AND  DEATH 

rudely  found  unripe  freedom.    Such  poor  leavings  are 
these  when  full  passion  has  been  gratified. 

In  the  numerous  cases  of  murder  that  have  been  re-  The 
cently  reported  in  the  papers,  you  have  perhaps  noticed  ^^  ""^^^ 
that  the  murderers,  or  those  who  have  been  charged 
with  murder,  have  invariably  been  characterized  as 
showing  a  cool,  bold  front.  Sometimes  they  have  been 
jocular,  and  Mr.  H.  E.  C.  Bryant  says  that  James  Wil- 
cox, who  was  charged  with  the  murder  of  NelHe  Cropsey, 
actually  looked  happy.  Molineux  was  never  for  a  mo- 
ment disconcerted  or  abashed ;  and  coming  to  the  small 
fry  of  the  defendants — to  those  who  are  admittedly 
guilty,  you  find  uniform  self-possession,  if  not  bravado. 
All  over  the  country  there  are  men  who  are  facing,  or 
standing  on,  the  gallows  with  a  laugh  on  their  lips ;  and 
the  single  cry  of  repentance  and  plea  for  mercy  come 
from  the  wretch  who  is  suddenly  made  to  face  the  burn- 
ing fagots.  Murderers — all  murderers,  seemingly — face 
trial  easily  and  death  easily;  and  there  are  only  a  few 
cases  to  show  the  retribution  that  is  supposed  to  operate 
this  side  of  the  grave.  The  law,  in  the  fine,  savage 
limit  of  its  vengeance,  seems  impotent,  and  is  mocked 
by  the  last  jeering  words  that  are  mumbled  in  the  death- 
cap.  A  snake  has  bitten  and  a  snake  has  crushed,  but 
it  dies — a  snake. 

*    *    * 

All  history  shows  the  operation  of  this  defiant  spirit, 
and  one  is  forced  to  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  real 
punishment  for  the  deliberate  murderer  begins  only  be- 
yond the  gallows.    You  kill  him,  and  that  is  an  easy 
[247] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

matter  and  a  precaution  against  further  crime,  but  all 
the  sternness  and  justness  of  justice  fail  to  bow  a  stub- 
born head  or  bring  remorse  to  a  gloating  heart.  This 
places  a  murderer  in  a  distinctive  class.  You  can't  get 
at  him  and  you  can't  know  him  any  more  than  you  can 
know  the  workings  of  the  heart  of  a  tiger.  He  has 
wanted  very  much  to  do  a  thing  and  he  has  done  it,  and 
he  stays  on  the  high  tide  of  his  exultation  till  he  faces 
That  which  made  him  and  can  make  him  suffer. 
*    *    * 

This  is  a  cursory  study  of  bad  men  who  have  had 
time,  through  the  processes  of  the  law,  to  prepare  for 
death.  A  man  can  be  keyed  up  to  do  anything.  You 
are,  so  far  as  you  know,  perfectly  well,  but  if  within  the 
hour  a  physician  were  to  tell  you  that  you  had  a  mortal 
disease,  your  mind,  horrified  at  first,  would  in  a  very 
short  time  begin  to  adjust  itself  to  the  new  condition 
and  would  prepare  you  to  face  the  end  with  equanimity. 
But  if  you,  without  warning  and  while  in  the  flush  of  best 
strength,  found  death  at  your  elbow,  you,  being  an  ordi- 
nary sort  of  a  man,  would  suffer  terror  indescribable. 
The  murderer  is  given  the  physic — wait,  or  time  for 
preparation.  Without  that — if  his  punishment  were 
immediate — he  would  probably  meet  the  end  as  a  trem- 
bling coward. 

A  Crude      Almost  every  day  one  hears  of  a  man  killing  a  woman 

rage  y  ^^^  apparently  trivial  cause.    The  normal  man  wonders. 

There  is  possible  extenuation  when  one  man  strives 

equally  with  a  fellow  man  and  slays  him  to  save  his  own 

life.    But  the  thing  in  a  human  being  that  will  cause 

[248] 


REFLECTIONS  ON  LIFE  AND  DEATH 

him  to  murder  the  female  of  his  kind  is  not  to  be  an-  A  Crude 
alyzed,  though  it  is  uppermost  in  the  annals  of  crime.      Tragedy 

Within  the  last  three  years  in  this  city  three  colored 
men  have  slain  women,  two  of  the  criminals  being  wife- 
murderers.  In  all  three  cases,  so  far  as  the  public  could 
see,  the  excuse  or  provocation  for  murder  was  the  nag- 
ging spirit  of  the  women.  In  one  instance  a  woman  fol- 
lowed a  man  and  taunted  and  worried  him.  In  another 
a  wife  flaunted  disobedience  in  the  face  of  her  lord  and 
master;  and  in  the  last  case — when  Pauline  Gabriel 
was  killed  last  week — the  wife  nagged  her  husband 
when  he  was  hungry. 

*  *    * 

Lee  Gabriel  had  been  working  hard  and  he  came 
home  very  hungry.  Moreover,  he  had  brought  home 
some  white  beans.  And  his  wife  wouldn't  cook  his  din- 
ner and  nagged  him.  His  mind,  dwelhng  upon  the 
tragedy,  drones  out  these  things,  making  the  razor  and 
the  axe  and  the  horrible  blows  all  incidental  features. 
He  was  very  hungry.  There  were  the  beans.  She 
wouldn't  cook.  He  slew  her.  And  he  sobs  and  swears 
he  loved  her  and  adds,  in  simplicity,  that  the  beans 
were  good  beans. 

*  *    * 

Gabriel  was  not  a  degenerate.  He  was  just  crude, 
primeval.  Every  day  his  white  brothers  put  to  death 
women  and  leave  the  task  of  assigning  cause  to  the  rest 
of  mankind.  Oftentimes  the  murderers  merely  remem- 
ber that  there  were  words  and  words,  and  the  brute 
stifled  life  in  his  weaker  kind.  One  thing  only  is  always 
clearly  visible,  and  this  is  the  power  of  a  woman's 
[249] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

tongue  to  infuriate  a  man  to  the  point  of  madness. 
Merely  on  this  point  the  world  agrees.  A  bad  woman 
is  the  worst  thing  that  is  allowed  to  live;  and  a  nagging 
woman  has  a  nice  tendency  to  direct  people  hellwards. 

The  Image  "  What  form  of  death  do  you  prefer  ?  "  questioned  the 
of  Death  observant  resident.  "  Standing  on  your  feet — ^with  your 
boots  on  ?  Well,  that's  the  way  most  men  wish  to  die. 
They  want  it  to  come  right  quick.  But  about  the  form 
of  death — do  you  think  of  death  as  coming  in  any  par- 
ticular way?  Yes.  Well,  most  people  do.  You  will 
find  that  nearly  every  man  who  reflects  much  on  the 
subject  always  associates  dying  with  a  certain  scene  or 
method — sometimes  with  one  disease,  and  sometimes 
with  a  particular  locality.  Maybe  there  is  in  your 
mind  the  picture  of  an  old  graveyard,  where  ivy  chngs 
above  ancient  tombstones,  and  you  think  of  this  and 
death  as  coming  together.  I  know  a  man,  and  when  he 
thinks  of  death  he  sees  at  once  an  old  mill-pond  that  was 
near  his  boyhood's  home — a  mouldy  old  pond  where 
snags  protruded  and  where  frogs  croak  dismally  at 
night.  Dying  to  him  means  being  pressed  down  in  a 
place  like  that;  and  most  other  men  have  mental  pic- 
tures that  stand  as  vivid  conceptions  of  death.  It  is  one 
of  the  greatest  blessings  that  no  person  can  really  im- 
agine himself  dead.  The  only  likeness  to  it  is  sleep,  but 
sleep  is  sweet.  To  the  normal  person  death  seems  suf- 
focation— first.  Beyond  that  he  doesn't  let  himself 
think,  but  shudders.  The  great  comfort  is  that  when 
Nature  handles  the  affair  nobody  has  any  terror.  A 
man's  honror  of  death  decreases  in  proportion  as  he  be- 
[250] 


REFLECTIONS  ON  LIFE  AND  DEATH 

comes  physically  weak;  and  ghastly  death-bed  scenes 
are  usually  the  product  of  an  imagination  that  wishes  to 
frighten  the  wicked." 

How  did  the  man  die?  'Tis  a  question  that  the  The  House 
world  asks  about  everybody.  In  childhood  one  thinks  °  ®^ 
about  death  as  a  far-off  day — a  day  when  no  one  is  al- 
lowed to  whistle  in  the  house  and  when  people  enter  the 
front  door  without  knocking  and  know  where  to  go 
without  being  told.  There  is  the  gloomy,  still  church, 
the  faint  rustle  of  women's  garments,  the  becraped 
heads  leaning  low,  the  slow,  melancholy  music,  and  the 
solemn  words  that  bespeak  the  httleness  of  man  and  the 
reason  for  his  peace.    And  you  wonder. 


[251] 


CHAPTER  XV 

MISCELLANY 

Two  "I  am  always  noticing  two  kinds  of  courting  men," 
Courting  remarked  a  citizen  who  has  long  acted  as  an  usher  at  one 

Men  of  the  local  churches.  "A  man  comes  to  the  church 
door  and  his  eyes  roam  over  the  place  until  he  finds  the 
woman  he  is  looking  for.  If  he  walks  up  the  aisle  and 
sits  in  front  of  the  woman  so  she  can  look  at  him  he  is 
one  kind  of  a  courting  man.  But  if  he  is  satisfied  to  take 
a  back  seat  so  that  he  can  see  the  woman  and  cannot  be 
seen  he  is  another  kind  of  a  suitor  and  much  the  better 
kind.  Oh,  these  little  things  show  character.  And  it 
would  be  dangerous  to  marry  any  man  who  would  rath- 
er be  looked  at  by  a  woman  than  to  look  at  her." 

"  Drunks  "Only  drunks  and  downs  to-night,"  said  the  turnkey 
Dow^"  ^^  ^^^  police  station.  "No  cases  of  any  importance 
whatever:  only  drunks  and  downs."  Only  a  rudder- 
less derelict  in  the  maelstrom ;  only  a  mind  besotted  by 
a  curse;  only  a  soul  engulfed;  only  a  man  chained  to 
the  body  of  death ! 

Harmlessly      There  is  a  man  in  this  county  who  was  harmlessly 
nsane  jj^gg^j^^g  ^qj.  several  years — ^just  touched  in  the  head  in  a 
way  that  did  not  interfere  with  his  health  or  liberty. 
[252J 


MISCELLANY 

And  he  was  happy — so  happy.  The  world  was  rose- 
hued  to  him,  and  he  had  the  most  innocent,  yet  fantas- 
tic delusions  about  himself — his  cleverness  and  what 
people  thought  of  him.  He  lived  with  his  dream  gods 
always,  and  had  never  a  care  or  sorrow.  Then  they 
sent  him  away  and  cured  him;  and  now  he  worries 
about  taxes  and  his  cotton  crop,  and  beats  his  dog. 
They  pulled  him  out  of  Wonderland,  and  now  an  extra 
soda  biscuit  or  mettlesome  corns  make  him  curse  des- 
tiny. They  did  right,  of  course.  He  has  forgotten  how 
to  smile.  Those  whom  the  gods  would  destroy  they 
sometimes  refuse  madness. 

"Dreams!    What  are  dreams!"  said  Dr.  Charles  F.  Dreams  and 
Brem.     "  Some  man  has  said  that  they  are  the  result  of  Niglit™ares 
one  part  of  the  brain  entertaining  another  part.    An  odd, 
quaint  idea.    I  wonder?" 

"Nightmares!  Did  you  ever  have  nightmares?" 
asked  Mr.  George  W.  Campbell.  "Nightmares  sug- 
gest future  punishment  to  me.  Some  part  of  a  man  just 
leaves  him  and  suffers.  I  have  wondered  if  the  thing 
that  suffers  in  a  nightmare  doesn't  travel  around  after 
death,  to  be  tortured  in  a  cramped  sort  of  way." 
*    *    * 

'Tis  an  eerie  idea.  ...  to  go  through  the  countless 
centuries  shuddering  with  Httle  moans,  a  baffled,  fright- 
ened victim  of  regret  that  will  not  die.  To  feel  forever 
the  gloom  and  to  see  not  clearly — to  realize  the  utter 
horror  of  the  worst  nightmare,  and  know  no  easement — 
that  is  a  fearful  conception.  This  reminds  one,  some- 
how, of  Dickens's  picture  of  punishment  as  portrayed  in 
[253] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

his  story  about  Scrooge  and  Marley.  There  the  spirit 
drifted  and  wailed  uselessly  over  lost  opportunities — 
saw  error  and  couldn't  rectify  it;  witnessed  pain  and 
could  offer  no  balm.  Such  was  the  agony  of  remorse. 
The  wonder — the  vain,  puzzled  wonder.  .  .  . 
*    *    * 

But  dreams  be  sweet,  too — so  sweet  that  man  hugs 
his  best  dream  to  his  heart  and  will  not  tell  it.  And  day 
dreams — do  you  know  them  ?  They  gather  behind  the 
sternest  brow,  and  they  show  a  dear,  secret  world.  What 
matter  if  you  are  a  hero  or  a  heroine — what  matter  if 
the  ugly  duckling  sees  herself  crowned  a  princess — what . 
matter  if  you  hear  the  plaudits  of  successful  ambition? 
You  may  not  laugh  at  the  dreamers  of  the  day — these 
folk  who  build  the  best  without  ever  attaining  it.  To 
tilt  the  chin  and  look  out  into  a  land  where  peace  and 
happiness  are — to  be  simple  and  fine,  and  to  be  judged 
as  that ;  to  witness  the  unselfishness  that  really  is  not ! 
'Tis  not  bad.  To  feel  the  nearness  of  understanding, 
the  closeness  of  sympathy,  to  be  protected  by  Love,  an 
eternal  comrade.  .  .  .  Foolish!    Ay.    And  sweet. 

The  Gods  Those  big  old  gods,  by  the  way,  were  about  the  most 
of  the  East  interesting  things  the  writer  saw  in  the  East.  They  are 
fascinating  frauds,  and  they  play  such  an  important 
part  in  the  life  about.  Now,  there  was  Sheng,  the  mil- 
lionaire mandarin  in  China,  who  in  many  respects  was 
as  modern  as  a  progressive  New  Yorker.  Sheng  prom- 
ised that  if  his  father  got  well,  he,  Sheng,  would  go  to 
Poo-too,  the  place  of  many  temples,  and  do  much 
honor  to  all  the  gods.  The  father  did  get  well.  Sheng 
I  254  ] 


MISCELLANY 

sailed  for  Poo-too,  and  the  writer  had  the  good  fortune 
to  be  on  his  ship.  In  this  place  which  contains  very  an- 
cient gods  and  temples,  priests  and  no  women,  Sheng 
made  his  devoirs  and  spent  $40,000  in  one  day.  He  had 
in  him  no  more  spiritual  essence  than  a  cat.  He  had 
made  a  promise,  and,  to  use  common  parlance,  he  ful- 
filled it  by  dehvering  the  goods  to  the  gods.  Those 
Eastern  gods  are  just  practical  propositions.  They  live 
within  a  stone's  throw  of  your  house,  and  you  can  go  to 
them  at  any  time  and  burn  paper  money  before  their 
thrones — tell  them  that  you  are  in  a  plagued  bad  fix  and 
beseech  them  in  pity's  name  to  hurry  up  and  help  you 
out  of  a  hole. 

*    *    * 

But  in  one  roadside  temple  and  before  one  divinity 
there  was  a  scene  that  will  Uve  forever  in  memory. 
This  lacked  not  in  spiritual  quality.  Here  was  a  golden 
goddess,  whose  placid  face  scarcely  concealed  an  ex- 
pression of  indifference  or  disdain.  She  received  pray- 
ers that  were  more  sincere  than  any  that  were  offered 
to  all  other  deity.  Men  passed  her  by,  but  before  her 
throne  women  grovelled  in  the  dust  in  the  abandon  of 
entreaty — childless  women,  agonized. 

In  this  State  the  gods  laughed  at  a  man  and  let  him  An  Inland 
go  to  Congress.  He  had  been  a  successful  young  law-  ^^^  '*^* 
yer  who  lived  in  a  small  town.  He  was  happy  in  a 
careless,  well-fed  life,  and  the  study  of  his  profession 
was  a  recreation.  His  social  life  was  all  that  he  cared 
for  it  to  be.  After  a  few  years  in  Washington  he  came 
home  with  link  cuffs,  his  first  dress  suit,  and  hungriness 
[255] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

in  his  eyes.  They  gave  him  a  party  where  they  had 
lemonade  as  a  chaser,  and  he  remembered  a  Washington 
theatre  party  and  high-balls.  He  hadn't  seen  enough 
of  a  big  Uf  e  to  be  a  man  of  the  world ;  and  he  was  al- 
ways drawing  comparisons  that  made  him  miserable. 
The  small  town  bored  him  stiff,  and  he  got  into  the  fatal 
habit  of  not  listening  to  the  idle  talk  of  his  friends.  His 
sole  wish  was  to  get  away  from  the  place  and  go  back 
to  Washington,  or  hold  some  other  political  ofhce.  He 
is  Hving  now,  though  he  is  not  especially  interested  in 
the  fact.  He  has  lost  the  Hnks  to  one  of  his  cuffs  and 
his  clothes  are  shiny  in  spots.  He  will  be  evermore 
praying  for  political  lightning  to  strike  him  again.  Un- 
til it  does — and  it  won't — he  is  so  disordered  and  mis- 
placed as  to  deserve  characterization  as  an  inland  dere- 
Hct. 

The  Story  of  The  newspaper  man  noticed  that  women — many 
a  Picture  -^omen — stopped  in  front  of  the  show  window  of  Hous- 
ton, Dixon  &  Company  yesterday  and  looked  at  a  pic- 
ture. And  as  they  looked  their  faces  grew  interested 
and  thoughtful,  for  there  is  something  about  the  picture 
that  challenges  attention.  It  is  a  cleverly  done  thing, 
by  C.  Allan  Gilbert,  and  is  called  "The  End  of  a  Love 
Story."  It  shows  a  man  and  a  woman  in  a  darkened 
room.  The  woman  is  in  a  whitish  evening  dress,  and 
is  lying  outstretched  on  a  long  lounge.  Her  opera  cloak 
is  thrown  shghtly  from  her  shoulders,  and  her  hair  is  a 
bit  dishevelled  and  falls  back  wavily.  Every  line  of  her 
body  suggests  rest,  relaxation.  At  first  glance  she  seems 
to  be  asleep,  but  as  one  looks  closer  he  sees  that  she  is 
[256] 


MISCELLANY 

not  asleep,  and  that  her  lowered  lashes  do  not  hide  the  The  Story  of 
strange,  steady  expression  of  peace,  yet  wonderment,  *""^® 
that  is  in  her  eyes. 

Her  eyes  rest  upon  the  man  who  kneels  at  her  side. 
There  is  no  affectation  in  his  pose.  His  face  is  turned, 
and  one  sees  only  the  back  of  a  well-poised  head  and 
the  outline  of  firm,  clear-cut  features.  His  head  is 
bowed  above  broad  shoulders,  and  his  lips  touch  the 
woman's  hand.  The  room  is  cosy,  comfortable.  It  is 
a  man's  room.  Thick  curtains  are  parted  at  a  window 
that  looks  out  upon  a  darkening  street,  and  a  book, 
opened,  lies  face  down  at  the  window  ledge.  One  imag- 
ines that  it  is  just  eventide,  and  that  a  cheery  fire  burns 
in  the  grate. 

Attached  to  the  picture  there  is  a  Httle  placard  which 
explains  everything.  The  woman's  people  wanted  her 
to  marry  a  rich  suitor  and  had  worried  her,  and  so  she 
had  left  her  home  and  come  to  the  man  she  loved,  put- 
ting herself  absolutely  in  his  hands. 

And  the  man,  with  fineness,  strength  and  humility 
portrayed  in  every  line,  had  knelt  at  her  side  and  had 
dared  only  to  touch  her  hand  with  his  Ups.  She  looks 
unabashed,  unashamed,  secure.  The  man  is  grateful 
beyond  words.  One  knows  that.  Maybe  he  finds 
heart  to  breathe  a  prayer.  Maybe  he  struggles  to  keep 
down  the  gulp  that  rises  in  his  throat.  One  knows  that 
neither  of  the  two  has  spoken  for  some  time — that  nei- 
ther will  speak  for  a  while.  Some  things  are  not  said 
in  words. 

But    why  the  name — why  "The  End  of  a  Love 
Story" ?    Can  there  be  irony  in  the  title?    The  woman 
[257] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

has  a  good,  strong  face,  too,  but  there  is  utter  languid- 
ness  about  her.  She  is  Beauty  at  ease — yet  Beauty  in 
splendor.  Her  proud  finery  seems  yet  out  of  place  in 
the  simple  room. 

The  end  of  a  love  story  ?  Did  she  bring  self-abnega- 
tion with  her?  Will  she  grieve  when  the  opera  cloak 
and  the  other  satinish  things  are  taken  away?  Is  she 
even  now  thinking  that  possibly  she  has  made  a  mis- 
take? Has  she  one  tinge  of  regret  over  what  she  has 
done  ?    Is  this  the  cynical  ending  that  is  meant  ? 

Oh,  no;  not  that.  The  end  is  just  the  beginning. 
The  woman  is  a  little  tired  now — and  she  has  a  right  to 
be  tired,  hasn't  she?  She  is  young  and  tender,  and  she 
has  done  a  very  brave  thing.  She  needs  the  abandon 
that  is  in  her  pose.  Her  weariness  is  womanish,  with 
no  lack  of  womanHness.  And  she  feels  the  great  gen- 
tleness and  reverence  that  are  in  the  room  .  .  .  feels 
glad  that  the  world  is  on  the  outside;  and  she  will  be 
happy  forever  and  forever. 

The  end  is  the  beginning,  and  through  all  the  years 
to  come  the  man  and  the  woman  are  to  stand  side  by 
side  and  look  out  peacefully  upon  the  gathering 
shadows. 

And  the  man  is  sure  of  himself  and  his  woman,  and 
so  he  dares  to  kneel  and  touch  her  in  utter  thankful- 
ness. 

Love  Letters      The  English  have  a  nice  little  bold  custom  that 

^    °^^  doesn't  seem  to  obtain  here.    Once  the  writer  was  over 

in  Yokohama  when  the  British  court  was  trying  a 

woman  for  the  murder  of  her  husband.     She  was  a 

[258] 


MISCELLANY 

clean-built,  aristocratic  specimen,  and  her  husband  was  Love  Letters 
a  big-hearted  chap  who  had  an  impassioned  sort  of  ^°  '-'°^" 
fondness  for  his  horses  and  his  dogs  and  his  clubs  and 
his  children  and  his  wife.  He  must  have  gotten  on  her 
nerves  in  some  way,  for  she  fell  to  putting  arsenic  in  the 
things  that  he  ate.  She  was  clever  enough,  and  after- 
ward the  physicians  admitted  this.  She  was  not  in  a 
bit  of  a  hurry;  but  she  sat  by  the  side  of  her  husband 
and  dosed  him  gradually.  He  was  not  satisfied  to  have 
anybody  nurse  him  but  his  wife,  and  so  she  used  to 
keep  the  long  watches  of  the  night  with  him;  and  when 
he  grew  feverish  or  suffered  she  used  to  smooth  his  brow 
with  cool,  patrician  hands  and  then  give  him  nourish- 
ing drink  that  contained  only  a  reasonable  amount  of 
poison.  Because  she  had  thorough  charge  of  the  situa- 
tion and  was  unsuspected,  the  wife  took  her  own  sweet 
time  and  slowly  murdered  her  husband  through  a 
period  of  tv/o  weeks.  Subsequently,  people  said  he  had 
a  look  of  horrible  apprehension  in  his  eyes,  and  that  he 
clung  to  his  wife  in  a  way  that  was  both  pitiable  and 
pathetic. 

*  *    * 

But  the  wife  had  a  maid  who  watched  through  key- 
holes and  got  into  a  habit  of  picking  up  pieces  of  letters 
from  waste  baskets  and  piecing  them  together.  And 
the  maid  told  things,  and  Mrs.  Carew — for  that  was 
her  name — was  arrested  and  tried  for  her  life. 

*  *    * 

My!    What  a  sensation  ensued.    Mrs.  Carew  was  a 
dreamy,  aesthetic  woman  who  would  know  just  exactly 
[259] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Love  Letters  what  you  meant  if  you  called  her  ''spirit  of  old-f ash- 
in  Coiirt  JQj^g(j  roses."  A  good  many  men  had  said  things  Hke 
that  to  her,  and  the  maid  had  patched  up  correspond- 
ence to  show  this.  The  Austrian  consul,  who  was  a 
diplomat,  left  for  home  by  the  first  boat,  but  a  well- 
known  bank  man  did  not  leave  and  was  put  on  the  wit- 
ness stand.  Mrs.  Carew  was  the  kind  of  a  woman  who 
plaintively  told  only  a  few  people  that  she  was  misun- 
derstood by  her  husband,  and  the  bank  man  was  one  of 
the  few.  He  was  so  sympathetic — thought  she  was  too 
fine  a  creature  to  be  mated  to  the  big  frank  fellow  who 
was  always  talking  of  riding  to  the  hounds ;  and  he  said 
as  much  in  letters  that  breathed  a  monopoly  of  under- 
standing. 

*    *    * 

And  they  made  that  bank  man  sit  up  there  on  the 
witness  stand  before  a  crowded  court  room  and  read  his 
own  letters  to  the  woman.  By  this  time  everybody 
knew  she  had  committed  a  fiendish  murder;  yet  the 
bank  man  had  to  read  aloud  to  His  Worship  and  the 
jury  epistles  that  almost  deified  the  woman.  The  writ- 
ten love-making  was  not  overdone,  not  fulsome,  but 
delicate,  exquisite.  It  would  have  flushed  the  face  and 
honored  the  soul  of  a  good  woman  who  was  not  already 
a  wife;  but  what  a  ghastly,  horrid  sound  the  words 
made  as  the  pallid-faced  man  uttered  them  in  that 
dreary  court  room.  "You,  heartsease";  "dear,  tender 
woman";  "reverence";  "heartfelt  appreciation  of 
your  unhappiness  and  its  cause" — these  were  some  of 
the  words  that  the  man  had  w^ritten  and  was  forced  to 
read  as  a  token  of  his  shame.  He  had  not  been  a  crimi- 
[260] 


MISCELLANY 

nal,  but  a  colossal  dupe,  which  is  worse  than  being  a  Love  Letters 
criminal.    Ugh!    It  was  awful!  in  Court 

*  *    * 

Now,  how  would  it  feel  to  be  taken  over  yonder  in  the 
court  house  and  be  placed  on  the  stand  within  a  few 
feet  of  Judge  Neal  and  just  in  front  of  Solicitor  Webb  ? 
You  are  handed  a  letter  and  you  recognize  your  own 
handwriting.  You  are  directed  to  open  the  letter  and 
read.  You  are  facing  all  sorts  of  people  that  you  know 
and  don't  know.  You  painfully  clear  your  throat  and 
start  out  with : 

"Oh,  my  blooming,  beaucheous  angel,"  or  some 
other  little  commonplace  term  that  you  keep  out  of 
your  business  correspondence.  You  would  be  so  frus- 
trated over  your  position  that  you  would  probably  re- 
mind yourself  of  the  young  man  who  was  so  bothered 
by  the  htigation  over  his  father's  estate  that  he  declared 
he  was  almost  sorry  the  old  man  had  ever  died.  You 
would  really  wish  that  you  never  knew  what  a  darling 
or  a  dearest  was,  wouldn't  you  ? 

*  *    * 

You  see,  a  letter  is  a  terrible  thing.  Rather  than  write 
a  letter  on  an  important  matter,  one  of  the  biggest  men 
in  this  State  will  get  on  the  train  and  ride  five  hundred 
miles — ^just  to  talk  only  a  few  minutes.  And  a  letter  to 
a  woman  may  prevent  a  man  from  lying  as  he  ought  to 
lie.  If  he  hasn't  written  a  letter,  then  he  should  perjure 
himself,  of  course,  and  he  will  be  cursed  if  he  doesn't 
commit  perjury.  It  is  Capt.  Harrison  Watts  who  tells 
the  story  that  has  been  referred  to  previously  in  this 
coimection.  A  member  of  a  crack  Southern  club, 
[261] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

while  on  the  witness  stand,  was  asked  if  he  had  ever 
kissed  a  certain  woman.  He  said  "I  decHne  to  an- 
swer." A  few  hours  later  the  governing  officers  of  his 
club  met  and  expelled  the  man  from  the  club,  declaring 
that  the  only  answer  a  gentleman  could  make  to  such  a 
question  must  be  "No." 

"A  Ground-      Never  was  such  fine  early  spring  weather  as  there 
hog  Case "  ^^^  j^^^  ^^^^^  -^^^  ]y[^j)_  Watkins,  of  this  township, 

shot  the  groundhog.  'Twas  the  only  groundhog  in  Mr. 
Watkins 's  neighborhood,  and  that  hog  was  a  disgruntled 
pessimist  if  there  ever  was  one.  He  had  his  home  in  a 
hole  on  the  bank  of  a  creek,  and  he  tried  to  play  as 
much  devilment  as  possible  with  the  six  weeks  of 
weather  that  were  under  his  exclusive  control.  'Twas 
different  when  he  was  quite  a  young,  blithe  pig.  Then 
when  he  made  arrangements  to  come  out  at  his  regu- 
larly appointed  time — on  February  2d — he  would  ap- 
pear at  a  darksome  or  cloudy  time  of  day  so  that,  not  be- 
ing able  to  see  his  shadow,  he  might  secure  a  lengthy 
period  of  Italian  skies  and  the  early  blossom  of  spring 
onions.  But  as  the  groundhog  grew  older  and  older  he 
suffered  from  dyspepsia  or  something,  and  he  took  a 
peculiar  pleasure  in  commemorating  his  day  by  stroll- 
ing around  in  the  sunshine  and  watching  his  awesome 
shadow,  knowing  full  well  that  he  was  working  for  the 
deluge.  Mr.  Watkins  said  he  simply  grew  tired  of  the 
perversity  of  that  groundhog — which,  remember,  was 
the  only  groundhog  in  the  neighborhood — and  at  length 
he  determined  to  act  in  the  premises  of  the  distinguished 
prophecy. 

[262] 


MISCELLANY 

Came  a  February  2d  in  the  seventies,  and  Mr.  Wat- 
kins  concealed  himself,  with  a  shot-gun  in  his  hand,  and 
watched  the  mouth  of  the  groundhog's  hole.  In  the 
forenoon  and  until  late  afternoon  the  rain  rained  right 
heavily,  and  Mr.  Watkins  knew  that  if  the  elements 
continued  beclouded  the  groundhog  would  be  helpless 
even  if  'twere  a  case  of  root-hog-or-die.  But  the 
shower  ceased  and  the  sun's  rays  fell  glimmeringly. 
Suddenly  the  nose  of  the  groundhog  appeared,  then  his 
head,  then  his  body  and  then  his  tail — until  he  was  aU 
out  of  the  hole.  He  had  an  evil  smile  on  his  face,  for  he 
thought  that  in  a  minute  he  would  be  gazing  upon  his 
shadow  and  then  farewell  to  fair  weather.  He  walked 
out,  with  his  shadow  following  quite  closely  behind 
him.  And  he  dallied  with  his  shadow  like  a  cat  playing 
with  a  mouse.  There  his  shadow  was,  right  in  the  rear, 
and  all  he  had  to  do  was  to  turn  around  and  inspect  it. 
He  appeared  to  tease  himself  into  a  state  of  pleasurable 
anticipation,  and,  having  exhausted  this  emotion,  his 
eyes  revolved  and  he  slowly  began  turning  his  head. 
But  before  he  could  so  much  as  rest  his  optics  upon 
the  tip  end  of  his  shadow  nose,  Mr.  Watkins  fired  and 
the  groundhog  died — in  the  very  act  of  an  evil  forecast. 
Of  course  it  couldn't  rain  after  that,  and  Mr.  Watkins 
was  voted  a  vote  of  thanks  and  a  prize  chromo  by  his 
appreciative  neighbors. 

After  an  experience  of  a  great  many  years,  I  have  The  Judge 
concluded  that  the  worst  judge  is  the  harsh  man  who  is 
judge.    He  doesn't  deceive  even  himself  when  he  pun- 
ishes every  offender  to  the  utmost  degree  and  then  de- 
[263] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  Judge  clares  that  he  merely  enforces  the  law.  I  never  saw  a 
harsh  judge  who  didn't  have  cruel  lines  about  his 
mouth.  A  cruel  judge  is  a  cruel  man,  and  as  a  judge 
he  does  little  favor  to  the  law  by  his  application  of  it. 
A  judge  who  has  a  set  rule  for  trying  criminals — ^who 
says  that  every  man  who  carries  a  pistol  shall  be  fined  so 
much;  or  that  every  thief,  regardless  of  age  or  color, 
shall  suffer  to  such  and  such  degree — that  judge  may 
not  be  a  fool,  but  he  will  have  a  hard  time  before  the 
final  judgment  bar.  For  man  is  a  creature  of  passions 
and  repentance,  and  when  he  sins  openly  a  judge  may 
break  him  at  the  wheel  and  blast  him  for  life,  or  extend 
the  mercy  that  he  is  allowed  to  extend  under  the  law, 
and  by  words  of  advice  save  a  life  from  further  sin  and 
for  happiness  and  good  deeds.  Too  severe  punishment 
belittles  the  majesty  of  the  law.  History  for  all  times 
shows  that  to  be  true.  The  judges  who  moved  as 
scourges  never  caused  decrease  in  crime.  Breaking  the 
law  is  inevitable;  but  law  breakers  act  from  varied  mo- 
tives, and  are  men  of  different  temperaments.  Some 
have  been  tempted  sorely;  some  have  been  hasty; 
some  have  been  thoughtless,  and  have  already  repented ; 
and  some  are  hardened  and  deserve  the  deepest  damna- 
tion. Such  aggregation  fills  every  court  room — old  men, 
young  men,  proud  men,  shameless  men — men  whose 
whole  future  lives  are  to  be  affected  by  the  quick  deci- 
sion of  a  judge  who,  in  his  heart,  does  not  pretend  to  do 
more  than  speak  his  character  as  a  man. 
*    *    * 

So,  as  a  cure  for  evil,  the  judge  has  a  dangerous 
responsibility.    If  he  deals  alike  with  all  men,  he  can 
[264] 


MISCELLANY 

have  no  knowledge  of  human  nature,  no  pity,  or  no  re- 
spect for  the  noble  purpose  of  his  high  office.  I  have  seen 
judges  vi^ho  looked  too  tenderly  on  all  sinners.  I  have 
also  seen  judges  in  North  Carolina  v^^ho  did  not  possess 
the  quality  of  mercy.  I  have  watched  the  works  of  the 
different  judges;  and  I  believe  that  cruelty  in  the  name 
of  the  law  is  a  crime  that  is  unpardonable  in  the  eyes  of 
heaven.  Common  sense,  an  understanding  of  his  fel- 
low man,  and  a  kind  heart — these  quaHties  every  judge 
should  have.  But  if  he  has  them  not — if  he  lets  his 
merciless  character  as  a  man  speak  in  his  office  of  judge, 
he  shall  do  evil  all  the  days  of  his  official  life. 

In  the  last  issue  of  his  paper,  Rev.  B says :  A  Point  in 

"The  Idle  Comment  column  of  the  Charlotte  Obser-  ^°  °^ 
ver  is  always  a  very  readable  corner  of  that  excellent 
paper.  In  fact,  the  high  esteem  in  which  that  paper  is 
held  by  our  people  generally  makes  its  utterances  on  any 
topic  exceedingly  important.  One  having  thus  the  ear 
of  the  public,  and  having  the  prerogative  of  speaking 
with  authority,  should  weigh  very  carefully  every  utter- 
ance, and  make  sure  that  the  cause  of  religious  truth 
and  faith  is  not  made  to  suffer  because  of  loose  or  un- 
guarded statements.  In  this  column  in  a  recent  issue 
we  find  the  following: 

"'At  the  tent  meeting  last  night  the  preacher  said 
that  on  the  judgment  day  God  would  laugh  at  the  cal- 
amity of  the  sinner  and  mock  at  his  fear.  Do  you 
think  He  will  do  that?  There  must  be  punishment. 
One  feels  that,  somehow.  But  it  isn't  even  human  to 
laugh  at  suffering.  It  is  inconceivable  that  God  should 
[265] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 


A  Point  in  be  Other  than  tender  and  gentle,  even  in  His  stern- 


Theology  ^ggg_ 


"Perhaps  the  preacher  should  have  been  more  ex- 
pHcit,  but  it  now  stands  the  author  of  these  idle  com- 
ments in  hand  to  go  a  step  further  with  his  cogitations 
and  tell  the  reader  exactly  what  is  meant  in  Pro  v.  1:26. 
Perhaps  if  he  and  Brother  Montgomery  will  get  together 
they  can  give  us  an  interpretation  that  will  neither  dis- 
credit the  character  of  God  nor  help  the  cause  of  scep- 
ticism." 

H:      H:      ^ 

No,  Mr.  B ,  the  writer  of  the  comment  column 

will  not  attempt  to  give  an  interpretation  of  any  portion 

of  the  Scriptures,  and  he  would  be  sorry  if  he  were  strong 

enough  or  weak  enough  to  say  anything  that  would  help 

the  cause  of  scepticism.    He  believes  that  God  does  not 

laugh  or  mock  at  calamity;    and  he  is  not  foolish 

enough  to  attempt  an  argument  or  explanation  that  you 

do  not  wish  to  provoke.    It  is  man's  privilege  to  believe 

that  God's  mercy  is  limitless;    and  in  considering  the 

inevitable  punishment  there  is  honor,  and  not  discredit, 

to  the  character  of  God  in  believing  that  He  will  sorrow 

over  human  suffering.    Is  it  wrong  or  sceptical  to  oe- 

lieve  in  the  infinite  tenderness  and  gentleness  of  the 

God  of  the  Christians  ? 

*    *    * 

And  no  loose  talk  about  religious  matters  was  in- 
tended. Only  a  fool  so  talks ;  and  any  man  who  is  not 
a  fool  must  see  that  the  Christian  reHgion  is  the  only 
basis  for  perfect  happiness.  The  comment  man,  who 
shrinks  from  obtruding  his  personality  into  this  matter, 
[266] 


MISCELLANY 

merely  ventured  to  express  a  simple  opinion,  and  if  he 

deserves  rebuke  from  you,  Brother  B ,  he  will  receive 

it  silently.  Whatever  he  may  be  personally,  his  head 
is  bowed  under  the  admonishment  of  the  man  of  God. 
He  has  learned  to  revere  above  all  other  persons  those 
simple,  earnest  men  who  lovingly  uphold  the  teachings 
of  religion  and  condemn  ceaselessly  any  deviation  from 
the  one  faith.  Such  men  the  world  admires  and  trusts 
to  the  utmost. 

*    *    * 

No;  no  harm,  nor  aught  but  respect  and  honesty 
was  meant.  With  this  assertion  the  writer  would 
withdraw  from  perilous  ground.  In  such  matters  he 
holds  no  further  right  to  speech  than  to  join  the  rest  of 
mankind  in  despising  those  ghastly  play-actors  who 
occasionally  desecrate  a  pulpit.  God  never  created  a 
creature  of  more  ineffable  horror  and  baseness  than  the 
man-thing  who  smirks  and  prates  in  the  temple  and 
has  naught  of  love  or  fairness  in  his  dealings  with  his 
fellow  man.  Here  is  the  real  dead-weight  on  Christian- 
ity— the  man  who  has  conceit  in  his  theology  and  is  a 
cad  at  heart. 

The  world  may  or  may  not  be  in  a  state  of  spiritual  The 
decadence,  but  the  time  will  never  come  when  it  will  fail  ^^^^  " 
to  admire  and  reverence  the  preacher  who  is  a  good 
man  and  a  gentleman — not  a  gentleman  as  a  snob 
would  use  the  term,  but  a  gentle,  clean  man  who  is 
above  littleness  in  thought  or  action.  Such  men  are  the 
best  beloved  in  this  country;  and  in  heathen  lands — 
the  writer  has  watched  them  there — they  are  the  men 
[267] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

The  who  conquer  in  the  name  of  their  Master.  The  worst 
Preacher  ^^^  living  trusts  a  good  preacher  as  impHcitly  as  he 
would  trust  his  own  mother.  And  it  is  a  mistaken  idea 
that  the  carnal  world  fixes  an  exacting  standard  for  a 
preacher.  Mankind  in  the  aggregate  is  not  a  fool,  and 
it  merely  asks  that  a  preacher  shall  be  a  gentleman,  that 
he  shall  try  to  be  good,  and  that  he  shall  try  to  help 
others  to  be  good. 

*  *  * 
Between  good  preachers  and  sinners  there  is  never 
any  misunderstanding.  To  the  sinner,  the  preacher  is 
the  biggest  man  he  knows,  and  the  preacher  knows  this 
without  presuming  on  his  knowledge.  The  two  may 
never  get  together,  but  the  one  will  never  give  offense 
to  the  other.  The  old-time  man  of  God  is  the  model 
presented  here.  Did  you  ever  know  him  to  fail  to  win 
respect  and  liking  universal? 


No;  when  a  preacher  is  cursed  a  preacher  deserves 
cursing.  Put  a  pin  there.  Everybody  in  this  country 
went  to  Sunday-school,  knows  good  men  by  intuition, 
and  respects  them  naturally  or  as  a  part  of  a  creed,  and 
when  men  rise  up  to  say  that  a  preacher  has  in  him  the 
elements  of  a  bad  man  he  stands  face  to  face  with  a 
truth  that  cannot  be  cried  down  by  a  whine,  nor  hidden 
under  cloth  that  is  worn  as  a  mask.  A  sinner  knows  a 
bad  preacher  by  an  instinct,  and  has  the  same  con- 
tempt for  him  that  he  has  for  any  maUgnant,  mouthing 
buffoon.  There  is  no  chance  for  misjudgment  here. 
The  bad  man  who  is  a  preacher  stands  naked  in  the 
[268] 


MISCELLANY 

eyes  of  other  men.    He  is  far  too  large  a  blot  on  purity 
to  escape  unnoticed. 

*  *    * 

Good  preachers  neither  fear  nor  receive  the  criticism 
that  impugns  character  or  motives.  They  know  that 
their  positions  in  a  community  are  settled  by  the  silent 
voice  of  that  community,  and  there  is  never  any  dissat- 
isfaction over  the  result.  This  statement  is  provoked  by 
the  fact  that  occasionally  one  hears  the  complaint  that 
a  minister  or  his  church  is  not  accorded  a  proper  dig- 
nity or  respect.  That  is  all  nonsense.  Critics  neither 
hurt  nor  bother  churches  or  good  preachers,  and  they 
criticise  those  w^ho  bring  shame  to  a  high  calling  be- 
cause there  is  nothing  else  to  do  but  criticise.  It  is 
quite  right  that  this  should  be  so. 

*  *    * 

And  the  narrowing  eyes  that  scan  bad  preachers  do 
not  beam  ill  nature,  though  they  recognize  the  essence 
of  fraud  and  the  most  horrid  mockery.  The  bad  old 
monks  were  merely  laughed  at,  and  the  bad  preacher 
of  these  days  is  generally  given  a  wide  range  and  un- 
limited license.  All  that  the  world  asks  him  to  do  is  to 
refrain  from  doing  or  saying  things  that  might  cause 
him  to  be  cut  to  shreds  with  a  dog- whip  if  he  happened 
to  be  unprotected  by  a  clergyman's  coat. 

A  correspondent  in  the  Observer  speaks  of  the  kinship  Humor  and 
between  humor  and  sadness,  and  asks  if  humorists  are    ^   °^ 
not  sad  men  or  melancholy  men.     He  uses  sad  and 
melancholy  as  synonyms.    That  is  wrong.    Sadness  is 
a  sane,  tender  thing.    A  melancholy  person  is  morbid 
[269] 


IDLE  COMMENTS 

Humor  and  or  fanciful,  just  as  melancholia  is  one  definition  of  in- 
^*  °^  sanity.  But  since  the  world  was  young  it  has  been  sad- 
ness and  humor  side  by  side.  Both  are  not  to  be  con- 
fused with  other  emotions.  Sadness  besets  a  soul  that  is 
tired  for  cause  and  has  a  dignity  of  its  own.  Humor  is 
kind  and  gentle,  and  is  mocked  by  many  imitators.  The 
two  quahties  bless  each  other,  and  sadness  would  be  the 
chief  est  curse  if  it  were  not  accompanied  by  humor.  The 
test  of  the  question  is  to  be  applied  to  every-day  living. 
It  is  known  that  most  of  the  greatest  humorists  were 
sad  men;  and  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  genuine 
humor  in  books  that  were  written  by  the  sunniest  peo- 
ple. But  as  one  lives  and  moves  about  and  touches 
people  he  learns  that  humor  is  the  handmaiden  of  sad- 
ness. Sadness  is  the  heartache,  and  humor  comes  direct 
from  the  heart.  Fun  provokes  a  throat  laugh;  humor 
moves  deeply  and  leaves  an  impression.  Sometimes 
one  is  swamped  in  misery,  and  would  die  if  it  were  not 
for  the  humor — brave,  sweet,  gentle.  There  is  humor 
that  would  make  one  weep,  and  it  is  the  best.  And  hu- 
mor and  tears  are  never  very  far  apart.  A  little  while 
ago  a  man  died  here — died  in  poverty,  and  his  death 
marked  the  close  of  a  career  that  had  given  every  prom- 
ise of  success  and  happiness.  He  died  yet  young.  He 
saw  failure  behind  him  and  destitution  for  his  children. 
He  had  to  die  so  slowly  and  thoughtfully.  And  humor 
stepped  in  and  saved  him  from  the  ghastliest  punish- 
ment for  the  little  while  he  had  to  breathe.  He  had  a 
true  sense  of  humor — grave,  playful  humor  that  allowed 
him  to  give  what  comfort  he  could  to  himself  and  those 
who  were  at  his  bedside.  He  died  almost  with  a  laugh 
[270] 


MISCELLANY 

— a  good  laugh.  Sadness  had  encompassed  him  every 
second,  and  yet  Ms  humor  was  keener  and  dearer  than 
it  had  ever  been  in  his  life.  It  is  always  so,  isn't  it  ?  The 
sigh  comes  before  or  after  the  best  mirth.  So  just  in 
little  ways  the  kinship  is  -noted.  Both  qualities  grow  in 
the  same  soil.  Sadness  is  a  part  of  love  or  is  caused  by 
love;  and  humor  is  most  lovable.  In  its  essence  sad- 
ness speaks  the  real  heart  of  man  through  humor.  In 
best  sense  sadness  and  humor  are  as  fine,  as  purified 
and  as  sacred  as  the  inner  emotion  of  a  good  woman 
.  .  .  and  both  walk  with  love  and  unselfishness. 

No.  97 !  And  the  public  now  has  a  picture  in  its  No.  97 
mind.  Bounding  out  of  the  North,  a  lean  racer,  trimmed 
for  speed  and  endurance,  the  fast  mail  comes  with  the 
swiftness  of  the  wind  yet  in  titanic  velocity.  There 
were  trains  before,  but  nothing  Hke  the  fast  mail — this 
gray  gleam  by  day  and  ball  of  fire  by  night.  What  a 
mad,  glorious  career  for  an  unweighted,  uncollared 
thing!  Thrice  she  was  crushed,  and  once  so  completely 
that  when  the  hush  came  only  the  voice  of  a  bird  car- 
olled above  the  dead.  But  ever  out  of  ruin  No.  97 
arises,  clean,  beautiful,  clipper-built,  and  leaps  forth, 
thin-harnessed,  short-coupled,  and  races  fiercely  out  of 
the  quick  North  down  through  the  sleepy  old  South. 
Hands  are  held  out  to  other  trains  and  they  stop;  but 
No.  97  flies  with  a  majestic  challenge,  a  wild  creature 
with  one  grand,  resistless  errand.  Ghosts  travel  with 
No.  97 — ay,  too  many  poor  ghosts  whose  wail  arises  in 
the  roar  that  is  the  high  scream  of  progress,  the  tri- 
umphant shout  of  the  tragedy  queen. 
[271J 


